


All Catches Alight

by saizine



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Brief Hospitalisation, Canon-Typical Violence, Colleagues to Friends, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Traumatic Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 87,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3415484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saizine/pseuds/saizine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s the same as when he sat in waiting rooms as a child with a suffocating sense of something on the edge of going wrong. Only adult logic doesn’t help because he can put names to what he fears, and he knows that the scale of the panic isn’t that far off the mark. There are so many ways to break somebody beyond repair.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written between 21 August 2014 and 08 February 2015.
> 
> Possible spoilers: Set following the events of series 4. References characters, events, and cases from all four series.
> 
> Thank you so, so, so much to both **timethetalewastold** and **yszarin** who have both been brilliant betas and absolutely integral to getting this project ready for posting. 
> 
> A few extra notes: It should very much be said that I am in no way a medical professional - my knowledge of injury and treatment is strictly from a historian’s perspective. For this fic I have both consulted a family member who has sustained the same injuries as Chandler in the past and spoken to both a couple of professionals, and though I have tried my best I do not doubt that there will be some details which may be slightly off. I have also likely taken a couple of liberties with hospital protocol (though in my own experience - albeit not in a London hospital - it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility). Any errors are, therefore, my own.
> 
> Title borrowed from Philip Larkin's 'All catches alight...' (From _The North Ship_ ).

Kent’s never going to trust the weather app on his phone again.

He huffs out a breath and leans away from where he’s propped himself against a low stone wall, the branches of the hedge digging in even through the wool of his coat, and he isn’t entirely sure if he’s damp or just cold. He doesn’t really want to know, not at this point. There’s nothing he can do, now, apart from deleting the bloody app in a fit of retroactive anger, except he’s already tried that and it can’t be done. Which is a lot more annoying than it should be.

They’ve been having a surprisingly warm spell, for November. Well, it can’t really be called warm. Just… not as cold as usual. But trust it to be the night when they’re all loitering outside a well-known villain’s house, waiting to see if anything goes on, that the weather turns. Actually, it would be just their luck that tonight was the night the universe decided it was time for an encore of 1987, so they’re probably getting off lightly.

Kent glances back over his shoulder and through a particularly bare patch in the hedge. Only twigs obscure his view towards the front window and he reckons he can see Davis making small talk, although that could very well be Jones. The two of them are similarly built, after all, and similar enough in style and stature to make this undercover operation work. Davis had come to them with recommendation from the Commander, the reassurance that he wears a wire just as well as Chandler wears a suit (because apparently that’s the word round the nick at the moment), and off they went. Peter Norwood’s death has all the hallmarks of a hit: neat, efficient, an in-and-out job. Strangely professional—not an ounce of personal spite in it, Miles had said, and he’s seen enough of them to know. Or, well, enough of them to convince the rest of them it was worth looking into. 

Chandler had done a course, apparently (Miles had huffed a gruff laugh at that announcement), and it took him an evening of poring over the collection of letters and numbers they’d got from a small notebook left at the scene to conclude that they were names and dates, occasionally a location. Kent still doesn’t understand it—well, all right, he can accept that the letters are most likely initials, but he’s less convinced by the idea that since none of the numbers go above 2400 those are times—but apparently it’s enough to get the next couple of rungs up the ladder on board for a covert operation.

(Or maybe that’s just Chandler. He’s remarkably good at convincing other people; it’s just a pity he doesn’t seem to be half as efficient when it comes to himself.)

Still. Kent’s tempted to think they’ve done nothing to warrant this particular punishment—he’s pretty sure he can’t feel his ears anymore. What have they ever done to the weather?

The radio in his hand crackles to life, awakened by Miles’ disembodied voice. ‘Anything your end, Kent?’

‘Apart from a parked car that looks like it’s had a fight with a blowtorch recently? Nothing.’

‘Same this end, skip,’ Mansell cuts in, his muttering clear despite the traffic noise at his shoulder. ‘How long d’you reckon one of these deals takes?’

Chandler’s voice joins them. ‘Can we keep any speculation off the radio, please?’

Kent lowers the device and quirks a smile at the edge of the pavement. They all must do the same, because there’s no further discussion, and Kent watches his breaths condense in the newly-minted autumn air.

Chandler doesn't have to be stern anymore, just exasperated (and he's good at that, ridiculously good) to get them to obey orders. It doesn't help that he sounds as put-out about the cold as the rest of them, another small inkling of him settling back into their usual pattern of whinging about the weather when they've exhausted whinging about the case. He wouldn't have stood for it, that first year, citing some lapse in professional standards. Now they know that the edge to his voice isn’t him getting short with them, it’s evidence of fellow feeling. 

Mansell, however, is not easily dissuaded as the rest of them. Kent’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and although strictly speaking he shouldn’t be answering anything other than his sergeant’s questions, he retrieves it anyway. He’s supposed to look nonchalant, like someone who’s waiting for a friend, and answering a text fits that image. The top left window of the building opposite’s been illuminated for ages, too, and it’s making Kent a little jumpy. 

Mansell’s name is attached to the oft-repeated question of _When you gonna ask him out again?_ There are at least three other instances of this vein of pestering in Kent’s message history, so he tuts, types back what he hopes is a brisk _When I ask him out again_ that manages to capture the irritation he’d include if he was saying it to Mansell’s face, and shoves the phone and his hand into his deep coat pocket, out of the wind. It buzzes again, after a few moments, but he ignores it. It'll just be another of the same questions as before with a few words swapped, even after everything; Mansell seems to think he's involved now, or it's his duty, because he'd been the one to suggest escalation in the first place. Not that Kent hadn't thought about it. He'd just stayed firmly in the realm of the theoretical. He's always been more comfortable there. Or, well, he had.

It’s just that they’ve slipped a little closer, since. Not in the first few days, when they’d all been shell-shocked and frazzled, but afterwards when the world had resettled in its new configuration and they’d all got used to the new guilt and the extra eyes on them, watching for the first fumble. Maybe he’d found a little more confidence—stolen it from Mansell, who’d egged him on, like some Robin Hood of self-esteem—after that breath of a pause, the moment’s silence that had seemed to stretch for years before _I’d love to_ , like a mirage in the desert, a blurry afterimage of promise, 

It helped that, for some unknown reason that Kent’s tried to muddle out a hundred times since, he and Chandler have seemed to resettle into that comfortable friendship they’d struck up between the Ripper and the Krays, between 1888 and 1968, the eighty-year gap condensed into a few months and a handful of bog-standard muggings gone wrong (where had the time gone?).

Kent nuzzles his chin into his collar, watching a cat slink across the opposite pavement, pausing for a moment at a lamp post. It’s mangy, but he can only tell because of the spill of yellow light. The cold hasn’t deterred it from roaming, from rubbing itself up against the wrought-iron posts of the fence and meowing, loudly, at a shadow. It balks a little when the pop of a cork and a cheer spills from the open window they’ve all got one eye on, and turns to glare at Kent with its amber eyes as if he disturbed its activities.

He’s never been good with cats, so he scuffs at the kerb again, a nervous habit. It’s bloody ridiculous, really, them all standing around listening to their suspect guzzle champagne when the best they can hope for at the station’s Christmas do is to be handed a warm glass of cava. Half-flat, if they’re especially unlucky, and they always are.

Speaking of drinks: God, he could go for a large coffee right about now.

A dog barks in the distance, snapping at the edges of the quiet, and suddenly the cat scurries away, rounding the corner impossibly close to the brick. Kent jumps a little at the sudden movement, automatically on alert; the only other people about are a couple walking along the opposite pavement, heads down and hoods up, and Kent relaxes in stages as their steps fade into the distance. He watches and waits, listens as a blackbird burrows between the twigs and leaves of the sparse, suffering hedge, wrinkles his nose as the wind picks up and the laughter from inside warms.

The problem is, it doesn’t stay that way. Kent spent far too much time in his youth at parties where the sound suddenly trails off like that—it’s never a good sign. It’s the harbinger of that sinking feeling when someone says something they’re not supposed to, something they’re not supposed to know. The last time Kent had heard that, it’d been his mate Tim joking about a couple of their friends having a supposed drunken fumble, only to find out that it’d really happened. It wouldn’t have been nearly as bad if neither of their respective partners had been there, but it had been bad enough. What makes Kent turn and watch through the ailing branches is the way this feels just as ominous as that.

‘Sir,’ he says into the radio, still looking over his shoulder. ‘I don’t like the look of this.’

‘Kent?’

‘I think something’s kicking off.’

It doesn’t take long before Kent realises that’s probably the understatement of the year. There’s a shout and the sound of a window shattering, then the tense quiet of the dark is truly gone. Everything happens at once and yet very far apart: Kent turns to see Chandler launch himself through an unsecured gate at the same time as Mansell runs up to his back. If Kent had enough time to process he’d probably jump at that, and he definitely would at the hand on his shoulder, but there’s no time for that sort of thing.

‘What’s happened?’

‘God knows,’ Kent says, quickly, moving along the fence to fumble with the latch on the closest gate. ‘Something—come on, bloody thing—‘

The iron gives under his grip just as something else happens—though, again, God knows what. The cold must have slowed down his reaction times, suppressed his nervous system, narrowed his blood vessels, or _something,_ because he’s trained for situations like this and yet it keeps getting away from him. Maybe it’s all the movement in the dark, the shifting of shadows across every trembling surface, but it’s too easy to miss things—because what he and Mansell find when they cross the obscured lawn is Miles crouching over a prostrate Chandler, his head dangerously close to the decorative stone edge of the struggling flowerbeds.

‘Ambulance and backup,’ Miles barks into his phone, rattling off the address without a breath’s hesitation. ‘We have a man down.’

Shock turns in his gut and Kent vaguely wonders if he’s got time to vomit into that rose bush, because Chandler’s so still and everything else is a blur. This was supposed to be easy, in-and-out, get some information then come back in the morning with too-straight faces and a warrant—

‘You lot,’ Miles says, not quite looking up. ‘Keep on after him. You’re a younger and fitter than us, go on—’

They go, programmed to obey orders posed like that, though not before Kent hears Miles say, ‘Joe? Joe, stay with me,’

He swallows down something bilious and breathes hard through the imaginary taste of something warm and ferrous in his throat, hauling himself through the cast-iron gate. Rust sticks to his hand as he lets go of the metal and he should care, but Mansell follows and the footfalls are nothing compared to the feeling of knowing Jones is in sight somehow. That’s a bloody miracle, and madness, and it’s enough for Kent to dig a little deeper and catch up with Riley and Mansell as they sprint off.

They clatter around the corner of the street—Kent narrowly avoids scraping his shoulder against the brick but almost loses his footing in the process— and that one’s no wider. A moment’s dread of running around London’s hodgepodge of Victorian backstreets shoots through him but it’s precisely that that works to their advantage. There’s always a dodgy paving stone to be relied on.

As usual, it all happens a little too quickly. His instinct, intuition, whatever it is—that’s usually enough, but this time something’s not slotted into place right. He almost trips over Riley and Jones because he suddenly doesn’t remember how to stop running. Even when he does stop he can’t move to help Riley; he leaves that to Mansell and bends over instead, hands on his knees, and breathes. His harsh breaths drown out Jones’ indignant ranting, snippets of which make it through when Kent pauses long enough to swallow.

‘You all right, mate?’ Mansell asks once they’ve got Jones to his feet.

‘Yeah.’ It comes out more like a gasp than Kent would like. ‘Just—wasn’t expecting that.’

Mansell doesn’t say anything, although he should. Kent knows he should have been expecting that, it’s why they’re there and didn’t just let Davis go in on his own. They were insurance—coverage for the unexpected. But as much as Kent hopes he thinks the comment’s more a reflection on the fact they haven’t had to do a sprint like that in a while, Mansell’s not as stupid as he sometimes looks. He’ll know.

‘You sure?’

‘Fuck’s sake.’ 

Swearing’s the only thing Kent can think to do; he’s not going to have time to catch his breath until all this is done and dusted. He returns to his full height and looks to the sky, feels the stretch in his throat. The night’s clear, distressingly so, and there are no stars. There’s another scuffle from Jones’ direction and Kent squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and reminds himself to breathe.

‘Come on, the skipper’ll think we’ve run off to the Home Counties at this rate,’ Mansell says, clapping him on the shoulder.

Kent doesn’t jump. He almost does, but he covers the urge with a cough and nods.

‘Look—Riley’s got it all under control.’ Mansell scoffs a laugh to himself as they start walking. ‘Course she has.’

And she has. For once, Mansell’s not lying. But judging from how he can’t soothe his pounding heart (spurred on by more than adrenaline, it must be), it’s a bloody good job he’s not.

*

Miles takes on the case; he’s senior enough to head the investigation on his own and it’s easier for him to step into the breach than it is to brief another inspector. Besides, the only other on-call DI available is Dawson, and as far as Miles is concerned that man couldn’t lead a conga line, so that’s the matter settled before they’re even back to the station. Kent just nods, barely taking the information in. He can’t tell if it’s adrenaline or distraction that’s making him fall back on procedure.

They go through the motions, packing Jones into the back of a patrol car and weaving back through London's labyrinth of streets. It starts raining, and the only reason Kent can hear the splatter against the windshield is because Mansell's oddly quiet, lacking in his usual bad taste in jokes and reckless optimism. They catch up with Miles in the holding cells, the weakening yellow light flickering as the bulbs start to give up. Kent blinks hard, twice, because he's never quite sure if his eyes have gone funny or not when that happens, and Miles claps him on the shoulder on his way out. 

‘You know what he’s like,’ he says, misinterpreting—or, well, perhaps not. ‘He’s too proud to die.’

Kent wants to stutter out something along the lines of, ‘I don’t think that’s how it works,’ but he doesn’t trust his throat to work so he nods instead. Miles goes on in his usual way, muttering about how it isn’t as if he’s any nearer to meeting Saint Peter today than he was yesterday, and maybe if Kent hadn’t seen Chandler go down he’d be able to believe him the way everybody else is. Instead he feels unmoored, tugged along by the current, his skin snagging against rocks until the rush of water is tinged pink; he’d heard something crack. Something’s broken, then, and he daren’t think of what.

He bites his cheek, chews on the inside of his lip until he tastes metal, scrapes the chalk until it spells Jones on the wall and walks away from the holding cells, ducking through the dark concrete doorways until he’s back in the building proper, all glass and tile and iron. London glares at him before he can escape to the incident room and start on the paperwork, check in and see what Miles wants them to do next. On any other day he would have been on tenterhooks wondering if they’ll ask him to sit in this time, if they’re going straight for an interview, but he can’t keep his vibrating thoughts still enough to do any of them any good.

Miles looks to him first but doesn’t argue when Kent inclines his head; Mansell goes, instead, as the man in the second chair. Kent and Riley debrief with Davis, filling in some of the blank spaces on the whiteboards, and although he nods at the right times and asks questions and chases clarification, he can’t help but feel as if he’s just going through the motions.

Ideas, each worse than the last, sink their teeth into his mind and draw blood so dread pools in his skull, lapping at the back of his mind, omens in the mist. It’s the same as when he sat in waiting rooms as a child, a suffocating sense of something on the edge of going wrong, except adult logic doesn’t help because he can put names to what he fears, knows that the scale of the panic isn’t that far off the mark because there are so many ways to break somebody beyond repair.

Miles sidles up to him just before nine, when they’ve had their hour with Jones before he asked for a solicitor and forced them to leave the rest until morning. Kent’s straightening the last of the night’s papers and trying to figure out how he’s going to calm down enough to sleep; he jumps as Miles claps him on the shoulder.

‘You all right, lad?’

‘Yeah.’ Kent rests his hands on the paperwork. ‘Yeah, just about.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘Not quite.’

‘Daft sod.’ Miles squeezes his shoulder. ‘He went down on his shoulder, not his neck. Collarbone’s buggered. And it’s not the first time he’s had a bit of a bang to the head, is it?’

No, it’s not. Kent shakes his head to indicate as much, and Miles doesn’t let go.

‘Thought you’d have been well chuffed. He finally got himself to a hospital for a head injury.’

’And I thought you said there wasn’t a serious head injury.’

Miles tuts, though it’s not unfriendly. ‘I said not his neck, actually, if you were listening. He’s got a bit of a concussion; that’s why he’s there and not at home tucked up in bed.’

Kent nods. It’s ridiculous, it’s absolutely bloody ridiculous and he can see that clear as day, but he still feels it all. He should be able to step back and look at it all objectively, like they do every day, and tell himself that a broken bone is nothing to worry about, really, in the grand scheme of things, but he’s been overinvested for years. Chandler could give himself a papercut and Kent would probably worry. Well, maybe not, but the point still stands.

It doesn’t help that some hint of disaster is lingering in the air. Chandler’s conspicuous absence is stunningly clear; the others have always joked that Chandler doesn’t leave a footprint, that he could be in and out of a room and nobody would notice, but what all that fails to take into account is that presence isn’t just leaving a mess in your wake. They notice when he’s not there.

Miles jostles his shoulder again, as if trying to shake something loose. ‘Not the worst of scrapes we’ve had, eh?’

Kent doesn’t say anything; he hasn’t been keeping track. There’s no point. If there’s one thing they can rely on, it’s that something shit’s going to happen to them sooner or later.

‘You’re in so deep it’s unhealthy, son.’

Miles’ tone startles a single laugh out of Kent’s chest, a leftover one from earlier in the evening. God, doesn’t he know it. This is not how you should react when your boss takes a tumble and knocks himself about a bit. This is in no way proportionate. Yet he can’t seem to stop the feeling from coating the inside of his lungs, clogging up some valve he needs to function, and he turns to Miles because there’s literally nothing else to do.

He fully expects to be told to buck up and get on with it, that there’s things to be done here (and God knows he’s aware of that, it feels as if they’re all staring at the back of his neck, waiting). Except Miles shakes his head in a way that doesn't say he’s not going to put up with this, just expresses a gruff recognition of the ridiculous.

‘I suppose someone should check the idiot’s not discharged himself already,’ he says, smirking when Kent frowns in confusion. ‘The Royal London, Acute Admissions. You might be able to sweet talk your way in for five minutes, if you hurry.’

Kent looks at his own watch, then the clock on the wall, and sighs. ‘Skip, there’s still half an—’

‘Go on.’ Miles jerks his head towards the doors. ‘Go and hold his hand.’

There’s probably something in the handbooks that says he should argue more, or something in those unspoken rules of the force, but Miles is only half-joking with that comment and Kent doesn’t want to argue. Instead he hands over the just-organised files and mutters something like _Thanks, skip, I’ll make it up to you_ but Miles makes a gruff sound and waves him out before he’s really even got his coat on properly. He passes Mansell in reception and, on any other day, he’d have had to stop and think about the fact his face is sombre.

He doesn’t quite trust himself with the revolving door so he slips out the side of the building, bundling his coat around himself without removing his hands from the pockets to do up the buttons. The temperature’s dipped as the hours have climbed closer to midnight, though they’re not there yet, and the rain's stopped. Well, actually it's still spitting, but Kent doesn't do anything about it.

Kent walks past the facade of the old hospital building on the south side of the Whitechapel Road, the white face of the clock glowing almost green in the scant moonlight, and he heads towards the main entrance on East Mount Street. The traffic whirs along the road beside him until he passes the lights, the hatched area of the pedestrian crossing; he doesn’t spare a glance for the junction and turns down the opposite corner, greeted by the blue glow of the modern building before him. The car park’s near enough to empty, as he’d expect at this hour, and he marches past the concrete benches and highlighter-yellow checkerboard ambulances until he’s inside and the automatic doors sigh shut behind him. 

If he thought he’d calm down a little, faced with the familiarity of the hospital foyer—they’ve all trekked in and out of here for one thing or another, appointments and interviews and even one or two arrests—then he’s wrong. Just being there isn’t enough to make his mind shut up, because there might still be a regulation that his warrant card can’t get him past. But the receptionist doesn’t look up and Kent walks, with as much purpose as he can muster, in the directions the signs point him. If there’s anything he’s learnt as a policeman it’s that a warrant card can get you almost anywhere, and if that doesn’t work, confidence’ll probably do it. Look like you’re supposed to be there and no one asks any questions.

He passes a few people, but none spare a second glance for him; something’s working, then. As he waits for the lift, Kent wonders if it’s too late to turn religious, invoke some venerated saint for their patronage, place hope in something more than his own pessimism and the doubt the job instills in them. It shouldn’t be like this, their day job is trauma, but there’s something different about this time and he can’t put his finger on it. Or, he can but he won’t, because doing that would defeat the purpose of a secret. 

It’s when the doors to the ward are within his sight that he runs into a nurse—almost quite literally. Maybe it’s an exaggerated startle response, maybe it’s the lateness of the hour, but she looks kindly upon him as he looks far more caught-in-the-act than he’d like. 

‘How can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for a Joseph Chandler.’ He might as well be upfront about that, at least. ‘He was admitted earlier this evening.’

‘Ah, yeah.’ She glances down for a moment to her hands, as if she expects to find a chart there. ‘Yes, he was.’

Kent detects a faint northern accent, not quite Newcastle—maybe Durham, or Middlesborough. Except it doesn’t matter, and he’s got a strange feeling that he’s being assessed, and he’s in the sort of mood that means it won’t be long before he starts squirming under scrutiny.

‘What relation are you, then?’

Answers get stuck in Kent’s throat, each pulling back the next before one can make it ahead. Police hierarchy makes him a possession, someone’s constable, and although that would probably work it feels disingenuous, because it’s not really why he’s here. Saying he’s a friend doesn’t seem like it’d do him any favours, either, because it’s late and Miles already told him Chandler’s not in mortal danger and yet, here he is. It’s a bit more than friendship that’s stopping him from going home. And no matter how close they came, they aren’t involved. Not in the way he’d like.

Kent looks back, ready to assign himself any connection that’ll get him through the next set of doors, but there’s already comprehension settling on her face and he wonders if, inadvertently, he’s let slip that he’s police.

‘What’s your name?’ she asks.

‘Emerson Kent.’

‘Ah.’ 

He swallows and finds that his mouth’s gone bone dry. ‘What?’

‘Well, when he first came in, he was a bit disorientated. It’s not unusual—’ She says, quickly, with a reassuring smile that must be to soothe the unease that makes its way onto Kent’s face. ‘But he said “I didn’t want to make Kent cry at my funeral.”’

‘That’s—um, well—’ Kent doesn’t know what to say; his capacity for stringing words together seems to have well and truly fucked off. ‘I don’t—’ 

‘It’s not the strangest thing I’ve heard today,’ she says, saving him from tying his own tongue in knots. ‘Come on, I’ll take you through. You’re only just outside of visiting hours.’

Kent knows he’s actually an hour late—probably closer to an hour and a half by this point—but he can’t stop the wide, relieved smile that breaks onto his face as she motions for him to follow her. His feet move of their own accord--and it's a good job, too, because he's reached that point in the day when he's switched to autopilot, or perhaps he's just prioritizing which thought function is most necessary. He stops looking where they're going, just matches the nurse's steps, and in one lucid moment takes a swift glance to read her name badge: Lucy Norris.  

‘How is he?’

Kent asks because he has to, and now's the last chance to be forewarned. 

‘Patients with injuries like his would usually just be sent home from A&E,’ Lucy says, turning to down a side hallway. Kent follows, suddenly able to loosen his death grip on the lining of his coat pockets. ‘But we’re keeping him in. The collarbone’s not a bad break, as breaks go, but with his age, history, and the concussion, it’s worth monitoring.’

'Right.'

He says it but Kent's not entirely sure that the news is entirely comforting, though perhaps it's not supposed to be. He's been told worse, after all, with more on the line. More immediately, too, with surgery and complications bandied about in the space above his head and his deep cuts. But somehow that feels very distant now--the experience of eons past, not a couple of years--and they're approaching a pair of double doors.

‘There doesn’t seem to be any major nerve damage, but it can be difficult to tell in trauma patients,’ she continues, reaching for the handle; Kent braces himself reflexively although he promised himself he wouldn't. ‘Just a stretch is likely, if that. It's a relatively rare complication, but it does happen.’ 

‘Neurapraxia?’

She looks mildly surprised as she holds the door open, midway between concerned and pleased. ‘You’re familiar with it?’

He shrugs. It's his usual method of deflection. ‘I’ve got a bit of experience, yeah.’

She doesn’t ask. Kent’s grateful; he doesn’t want to explain it again.

He almost doesn't recognise him as they approach. But why would he? He's never seen Chandler out of suits, or cashmere; he's seen him a bit scuffed and bruised but not bundled up in bed, propped up for an approximation of comfort with an arm immobilised in a sling. He looks... well, it makes Kent's stomach lurch in both relief and horror to see him, because it's him (it has to be him, it's his name on the patient record on the end of the bed) but it doesn't seem like him. Not yet. 

'He's been awake, a little earlier on,' Lucy says under her breath, coming to a gentle stop. 'It's best to let him sleep when he can. A lot of patients find it difficult to get comfortable enough to drift off.'

Kent nods lamely, his mind preoccupied with the patched-up scrapes.

‘Looks like he’ll be sleeping long hours for the next few days, though,’ Lucy says, indicating the empty chair. ‘You’re welcome to stay for a bit.’

He nods, again, and sits without removing his coat. He feels a bit stupid as soon as he does it, but he’s familiar enough with that not to be bothered by it any more.

‘D’you want a cup of tea, love?’

He really shouldn’t, because he’s got a feeling it’s not in her job description to offer him hot drinks, but maybe there’s something in his face that betrays the fact that he feels a bit like his insides have been scrambled around and then scooped out. It’s not just Chandler; it’s the hours between then and now, the way his brain’s got a tight hold on his throat, the fact he’s sat voluntarily in a hospital when he usually goes out of his way to avoid any part of them save the morgue. That thought sends another jolt through his system, and he decides he really would like a cup of tea.

‘If they’re going,’ he says, trying for flippancy.

She smiles; she must know, or at least suspect, because she pats him on the shoulder and says, ‘It’s not technically my job, but we’ve lost our work experience chap and we’re gasping.’

‘Just milk, then.’

‘Since it’s quiet,’ she says, leaning a little closer and feigning secrecy, ‘I’ll even get you a mug.’

Kent smiles at that, weaker than the last but at least it’s honest and grateful. It’s probably as much of a precaution as it is a kindness, because they’ve had enough problems at the station with drinks ending up in places they shouldn’t be when they make do with paper cups. Kent’s never liked them—they’re reminiscent of waiting rooms, somehow mirroring how disposable life sometimes is. (It shouldn’t be.) But he’s always been susceptible to symbolism, to suggestion, and he’s suddenly aware of how loud his thoughts are in the silent room. The rush of pulse under his skin is thudding, someone knocking on a door. How loud the body is, even when it’s quiet. More so. 

He takes a deep breath—in, count to seven, out—and finds that he’s gone hot after being out in the cold, that sort of damp flush that comes with the combination of rain and walking at speed. And yet it doesn’t bother him enough to get up and shrug off his coat; he’s doing everything the wrong way around (to say the very least) and he’s glad to be feeling, if not calm, then at least numb for the moment. He’s pretty sure he’s not even bothered about being seen here anymore. If he even is at all.

The first thing he learnt during his spell was that the people in the next beds don’t give a toss. They’ve got their own things to worry about, and their neighbour’s visitor is the least of their troubles. Or maybe that was just him, because he couldn’t have pointed out any of the patients who’d been on the ward with him if his life depended on it. Either way he doesn’t really care, because even though he looks a bit like he’s been through the wars that’s Chandler, and he’s in (more or less) one piece.He reaches, delicate as eyelashes, to brush the hair that’s fallen forward out of his face. It’s a small thing, but something that’d bother Chandler, and Kent would like to think it’d soothe him even if what he’s actually doing is calming himself.

Against his better judgement, Kent rests his shaking fingers in Chandler’s slack hand and strokes his knuckles once, then twice when there’s no sudden flinch. He hadn’t meant to take Miles’ instruction so literally, yet there he is. He shifts the touch after a long moment, gently settling two fingers against the artery in Chandler’s wrist just under his thumb, and presses slightly. He doesn’t count the heartbeats to measure them, just to reassure himself that they’re there. The grip relaxes the longer he listens until the side of Kent’s hand brushes the hospital wristband, resting against the gentle heat of Chandler’s skin. 

Kent pulls his hand away when he hears the rhythm of approaching steps; he sits forward and braces his elbows on his knees, waiting, worrying his own fingers.

‘Here you are, love,’ comes the same voice as before, with the same kind smile. 

He murmurs a thanks and cradles the mug, letting the heat seep through his fingers and welcoming the eventual sting. It gives him something to focus on that’s not the smell of hospital and the fact that he has to be here at all. 

‘I fetched this for you, too,’ Lucy continues, holding out a badly-folded newspaper. ‘Thought you mind need something to distract you.’

Kent accepts it with a faint smile. ‘Yeah, thanks.’ 

He may or may not read it; it depends how far away he wants to be from his own thoughts. Either way, it’s something, and he can fold the fine paper between his fingers until the crease is worn and frail and his fingertips are pewter. Chandler would hate it—he’d hate the thing even being here, he only just about tolerates all the cuttings Ed trails into his office—but it’s something and if there’s anything Kent needs now, it’s something.

Chandler had stood at the threshold of the mythic in Kent’s mind, seemingly immune to everything except his own thoughts; Kent knows now and knew then that it wasn’t healthy to think of him that way, but it wasn’t conscious. Chandler just was—he was like that, solid and a force to be reckoned with when he put his mind to it. Their villains are usually no match for him. Luck may be against them as a whole but it’s been on Chandler’s side until tonight. He’s dared the universe enough, coaxed enough fists and bullets in his direction. Yet it’s the accidents, the slip in the mud and the shove, that bring him down. Not even to his knees. Lower than that.

And it makes Kent more the fool, with his words stuck behind his tongue and his pride, all his questions unanswered thanks to a fear that pales in comparison to the way he’d felt when he’d seen it all happen. Everything he has and hasn’t said had suddenly been brought into frightening focus. It’s over now, settled back into its usual nebulous haze, but something’s still churning in Kent’s chest and even a sip of tea doesn’t quell it. Maybe another’ll do it. 

He sits forward, pulls his coat from his arms, and shakes out the paper as quietly as he possibly can.

* 

The clock slips beyond ten and Kent still sits in the uncomfortable hospital chair, a biro between his teeth as he peers down at the crossword. He’s never been that good at them—he’s not Morse, never has been—but it’s something to do besides just watching Chandler sleep. He’s always thought doing that’s a little creepy so he won’t if he doesn’t have to. He’s happy enough sat there with the paper, his half-filled in (and probably very wrong) answers, and the last of his tea. He’s not entirely calm, because this is a hospital and he’s never been all right with that and Chandler’s very still, but when anxiety wells up and threatens to spill over the cryptic clues keep his mind busy. Once or twice they’re the cause of a small chuckle. He’s put down _Buchan_ for eleven across: _Game show host detailed elephant’s place in history._ It doesn’t fit—far too short—but it sounds like something Ed would do.

Every now and then he looks up and watches, just for a few seconds, until he can see the gentle rise and fall of Chandler’s breathing. He knows he’s not at death’s door but it’s like when they’d got their family dog—Patch, she’d been called, lollopy and soft—and his mum used to sit up in her armchair and peer at the pup as she slept in the basket at her feet, watching for the dream-breaths, just in case of disaster and despite all the evidence to the contrary. But Patch had grown and lolloped and dreamt until she was fifteen and three quarters, positively ancient, and Miles is right. Chandler’s pretty hard to take out, so Kent returns to the paper, pondering whether or not it’d be funny to write _Miles_ in for _Possibly sergeants (not social workers) going after major promotion prospect?_

(He decides that yes, yes it is, and that no matter how solid someone looks he’s still allowed to worry because all it takes is the right angle to splinter bone.)

‘Kent?’

His stomach swoops a bit at the sound of Chandler’s voice, and Kent’s glad he’s sitting down. It doesn’t even matter that it’s more gravelly than usual, or that there’s such a lilt of confusion in the pronunciation of his name. He’s just thrilled he’s hearing it again. Which is probably an overreaction, because he knew an hour ago that Chandler would be all right, but there’s something more certain about this.

‘Hello,’ he says, sitting forward a little and leaning his elbows against the paper on his lap, not bothered about whether or not the newsprint gets on his shirt. ‘You all right?’

‘No,’ Chandler says, and the admission’s sleep-slick. He looks surprised at his own pessimism.

Kent quirks a small smile. ‘Skip said you’d buggered your collarbone.’

‘I’m not sure that’s the official line.’ Chandler shifts slightly, or tries to—he ends up wincing more than anything else. ‘What happened, after?’

‘We booked him,’ Kent says, smiling wider as Chandler’s expression grows pleased. ‘Riley caught up with him, and you know what she’s like.’

‘And who’s taken on the investigation?’

He must know he’s out of it for the long run, then. Kent feels for him, feels for the ache in his voice; Chandler’s a man who works. He’d heard him at the christening: _I don’t really have any interests outside of work._ Kent’s not entirely sure that’s true, because a man like that wouldn’t be able to show up the next day and make references to Keats and say _It’s just poetry, Miles, not some weird fetish_ , like it’s something he believes in. But it doesn’t matter because Chandler’s the first in each day and the last to leave and Kent decided long ago that he’s probably one of those people who doesn’t know what to do with themselves when they’re doing nothing.

‘Miles.’

Chandler sighs. ‘That’s something, then.’

Kent nods, because it is. No other officer would have given him permission to bunk off early to come and sit here, to keep vigil for someone who, strictly speaking, should be a periphery in his life, just a colleague. But they’re coppers, and it’s a documented phenomenon, their closeness, so when Chandler moves and inadvertently reveals the previously obscured side of his face, the way Kent’s stomach jumps to his throat isn’t entirely unwarranted. He hadn’t seen, not in the mottled moonlight and the weak spill from the open window. Maybe there’d have been nothing to see, then, but Miles’ hand had come away damp and Kent’s suddenly inordinately glad that he didn’t see that and he only has to look at the lingering abrasion, the beginnings of a wretched bruise that’s going to be infuriatingly sore. He can gladly go the rest of his life without seeing Chandler’s blood.

Chandler looks at him again, although something about it makes it feel like the first. His face is soft—softer than Kent’s ever seen it—and yet it isn’t. Kent tilts his head a little; this isn’t the pillow talk he’s imagined.

‘It’s in good hands, sir.’

Chandler huffs gently, only a shadow of how he might have sounded yesterday, and says, ‘Miles would tell you to say that.’

The corner of Kent’s mouth lifts in a smile, because Chandler’s right, Miles would do that, but they both know that he’s their skipper in more than name and he’s the only name that would have come out of Kent’s mouth and actually made Chandler relax a little about his responsibilities. He’d come straight back in from being knocked out and left for dead in the middle of Wapping Forest, urged on by either a lack or an excess of self-preservation (Kent hasn’t been able to decide which), and he’d probably do the same now if there was still the threat of another Cazenove taking over his cases.

Chandler moves his head slightly, shifting with such wariness that it looks as if he’s frightened of his own bones, and reveals another scrape on the hinge of his jaw. Kent’s chest tightens, his skin aching in subconscious sympathy (he hasn’t forgotten the yellow of his own cheek, the sharp smell of metal and rust that he hadn’t been able to shake for days), but he’s saved from unravelling himself to find words by Lucy arriving, her warm face bright in the dim light of the ward. 

‘Feeling any better, Mr Chandler?’

Kent sits back as she approaches, folding the paper back into an approximate square and tucking it alongside the arm of the chair, and smiles at his knees as Chandler pulls that familiar, just-on-the-calm-side-of-disgusted face. It’s not even a full expression, just a twist of his mouth and something changing around his eyes, but it says it all.

He clears his throat, however, and tries for diplomacy through another wince. ‘As well as to be expected, I suppose.’

Lucy nods, turning to Kent for the next question. ‘Did he wake all right?’

‘As far as I could tell,’ he says, feeling very much out of his depth.

‘You didn’t have to pester him?’

Kent shakes his head. He’d love to be able to offer more information, to settle all their minds, but he knows that what calms him isn’t necessarily what the doctors are looking for.

‘That’s a good sign. I’ll leave you to it, then. Hand us that, will you?’ she asks, gesturing towards the forgotten tea.

Kent obliges and tries to ignore the way Chandler peers at him as he leans over. Kent hasn’t said how long he’s been here—it’s not something he’s intentionally omitted, just something that hasn’t come up—but he can see that Chandler’s putting the evidence together, wondering. It’s a tiny bit disconcerting but he lets him do it. They can mention it or they can just ignore it, and Kent’ll let Chandler choose which he prefers.

Lucy nods towards Kent just before she turns away, though her words are for Chandler. ‘You've got a good man there, you know.’

Chandler looks even more muddled at that comment than he had been when he’d woken, but Lucy just shoots them a knowing smile and leaves them be. Kent doesn’t know whether to curse the universe for highlighting his bad decisions or thank it for not dragging him through the muck too thoroughly; either way, Chandler fixes him with the questioning expression.

‘Sorry,’ Kent says, his face suddenly too hot. ‘She assumed and, well, it was easier than getting my warrant card out.'

It’s a shit excuse. He really shouldn’t be here. It’s outside everything: outside visiting hours, outside his remit, outside the normal expectations of service. They both know it. Maybe. Kent does, at least, and he glances to the speckled floors as he realises that it might not be that clear to Chandler. He knows what concussions can do—he’d feared it, when he’d hounded Chandler and Miles up the stairs, watched them joke and Chandler hold a handkerchief to his bleeding head.

‘No, it’s…’ Chandler trails off as Kent smooths his hands against his trousers. ‘It’s fine.’ 

Kent’s not sure it is. He suddenly feels like an imposition, an over-invested child barging in; the back of his neck burns as he lets his head fall forward and finger-combs his hair.

‘They’re not always as sympathetic to police as they are to…’

Chandler trails off. Partners, he means, or family. He speaks as if he’s recalling a distant experience, one that he’d packed away but had been knocked out of place, standing out now in the fog. Kent’s skin heats again as he puts the pieces together: Chandler and Miles bursting in just before he’d gone into surgery, the times his sister had come to hold his hand as he controlled his morphine with the other, the nights spent with his forehead pressed to the mattress feeling so hatefully alone, Chandler emerging from his office and making a beeline for him with a smile and a _We weren’t expecting you back so soon._

There are gaps—there will always be gaps, bits he’s missed and bit’s he’s chosen to forget—but he can’t stop his brain from filling them in sometimes. Suddenly Chandler’s on the other side of a blank hospital wall, turned away by the dragon of the matron because his working hours are incompatible with visiting post-surgical trauma patients. But that’s near on two years ago, now, and the bruise of hindsight is a sensitive one.

‘Why…’ Chandler trails off again, frowning softly this time, and for a moment Kent wonders if this is what they mean in the pamphlets by _slow reaction times_. ‘This is going to sound as if I’m ungrateful.’

‘Go on,’ Kent says with a smile, because that sounds like Chandler. ‘I won’t be offended.’

‘Why are you here?’ 

It’s a perfectly reasonable question. Kent’s rather surprised it hasn’t come up before now, that it hadn’t been the first thing out of Chandler’s mouth, but he’s ignored that niggling expectation in favour of sitting there with all Chandler’s signs of life before him, still so carefully still but not the limp, drifting consciousness that Miles had fought to keep focused.

‘Because…’ Kent only manages the lone tremulous word before he has to stop and take a grounding breath. ‘Because when I was in here, the thing I wanted most was company.’

It’s true, because he can’t lie to Chandler and he certainly can’t lie to a Chandler who’s looking at him with such an expectant expression and with a bruise creeping close to his throat, but it isn’t the whole truth. He doesn’t say _Actually, I would have wanted someone sat here when I woke up_ , even though he had and he used to feel it again, raw and brutal, every time he woke from the dress rehearsal in his head and shook until he’d talked himself down from the edge, gulped down sleeping pills and welcomed a depth of blank unconsciousness that probably wasn’t healthy.

But Chandler’s different. He’s nodding, a soft expression on his face that’s probably more the fault of medication rather than spontaneous feeling, and Kent responds with an upturn of lips that probably only just resembles a smile. That wobbly feeling’s back, the one that suggests that they’ve been duped by blind faith in the near future, forced now to do nothing and expect nothing on a six- to twelve-week timeline. Sympathy forces Kent to feel the sudden nausea of screeching to a halt, the mind running on without its body, having to wait for correspondence.

It’ll be all right for Chandler. He’s used to being on his own. He’s not like Kent, who doesn’t feel quite right without the sound of someone familiar in the next room or on the other end of a text conversation. Every time the nurses had told his sister that she should go, let him get some rest, he’d wanted to snap that they’re going about it all wrong, that if they want him to rest they should let her sit there and tell him about her shit day at work and her meddling coworkers just for the sake of talking about something—anything—apart from what happened, and he hadn’t wanted to think of Chandler lying there feeling the same.

‘It’s kind of you.’

‘It’s not a problem.’ Kent smiles properly then, makes a point of it, and shrugs when Chandler steadies his gaze upon him. ‘Anyway, Miles was a bit concerned you’d try and make a break for it.’

‘I don’t think I’m going anywhere at the moment. Certainly not at speed.’

He sounds tired, exhausted. Miles had said, once, that Chandler forgets he’s not a cadet anymore, he isn’t twenty, and it sounds like that knowledge has just crashed into him, all that time squeezing the ache from his bones. It’s not dissimilar to the way he’d been that first week, when they’d been running back and forth trying to make sense out of the loss of the Abrahamians, pale and dangerously quiet.

Kent gentles his voice. ‘Your track record’s enough to make anyone think you might still try, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Even so.’

They both smile at that, tiny slivers of the gesture. Kent slides his gaze away and brushes at his trousers with awkward hands. The hush of Chandler’s voice is both too close and too far away, too small and too loud, and Kent daren’t look at him in case he sees something too telling in the edges of his face, where he’s letting the tiredness creep in. But of course it’s nothing compared to how Chandler must be feeling, so he does look and offer up a familiar face (because God knows that’s all he’d wanted, when). 

He doesn’t speak, because there’s nothing to say: Chandler’ll be all right, he supposes, but there’s too many variables to define what all right really means. Kent can’t see him sitting still for six weeks. He can worry about that now, or he can worry about that tomorrow, but he doesn’t get a chance to choose before Lucy’s reappeared at the foot of the bed and he and Chandler aren’t looking at each other anymore.

‘Sorry to have to do this,’ she says, directing the apologetic look in Kent’s direction. ‘But I’m off shift in ten minutes and I can’t guarantee that the night nurse won’t have a few choice words about you being here.’

‘Oh.’ Kent looks towards Chandler, tries to ignore the way his face has changed in a way he can’t quite describe, and reaches behind for his coat. ‘I’d best be off, then.’

Lucy hovers at the end of the bed, carefully looking in the other direction as Kent gets to his feet and searches around the crevices of his brain for a benign end to the conversation. Everything’s been said in whispers, hushed tones, and he’s still not entirely sure if they’ve had a conversation about anything at all. Chandler, on the other hand, is watching him, his gaze a little less guarded now they’re shrouded in blue shadow. 

‘See you soon,’ Kent says, eventually, and the tight coil of preemptive embarrassment unravels as Chandler nods, apparently pleased with those parting words.

‘If you could follow me,’ Lucy prompts, with a hand at Kent’s elbow, and they make their way back to the nurses’ station. Kent resists the urge to look back, because that’s not the sort of parting this is.

He shrugs on his coat as they walk, fiddling with the collar until it flattened to his liking. ‘How long will he be here, d’you think?’

‘We rarely keep patients in this ward for longer than forty-eight hours. We just want to keep an eye on the concussion—the man who was at the scene with him, it’s down that he said he’d had a history of blows to the head—’

‘He boxed, at school,’ Kent says, quickly, because he can’t leave a comment like that unqualified.

‘—And to take a closer look at the nerve. He’ll be in for a couple of tests tomorrow, for a firmer diagnosis, but you’re welcome to come back.’

Kent nods, burying his hands deeper into his pockets. It’s not cold inside but he still does it, fishes around for some comfort there when it doesn’t come naturally. He hovers, unsure of how to end this exchange of words either, but she doesn’t seem to mind; either way, she slips behind the desk and pulls a pen out of a pocket, writing something on a shadowed page.

‘Thank you, for… you know.’ 

 ‘Oh, visiting times can be flexible, with negotiation.’ She fills in another line on the form, then looks up with a smile. ‘Nurses’ discretion.’

‘Speaking of…’ He trails off, forcing himself to meet her open gaze. ‘We’d appreciate further discretion, if you follow my meaning.’

He doesn't even have to finish the sentence before he can taste his own lie, the presumption. Perhaps it's not exactly a lie, because (knowing Chandler) he would be happier knowing that it won't get out that he's ended up in hospital while the investigation he was running continues without him. It's not the worst story that's come out about them, but if he's supposed to be on complete rest then a complete blackout would be better all around. And the fact that his DC came to sit by his bedside at gone ten o'clock wouldn't help. But that's not what she thinks he means, and Kent knows it, and his face warms again when she bestows a compassionate smile upon him.

‘You needn’t worry about any of us.’ 

He nods. It's the only thing that he can do, because all of a sudden he feels incredibly tired—he has been out of bed since half-six, and it's nearing eleven, and he's still got to eat something.

'I'll just...' Kent trails off, motions with the hand in his pocket towards the dimmed empty hallway. ‘G’night.’

He doesn’t immediately move to leave, though, and Lucy puts down the pen in favour of cupping a hand around his elbow.

‘You will sleep, you know,’ she says, squeezing the joint through his coat.

‘I know,’ Kent says, because he does, he’d learnt that the first month on the job. ‘Sorry, I’m just being stupid—’

‘You’re not.’ She gives his arm another pat, then returns to the clipboard of forms. ‘You can always give us a ring if you want to know how he is.’ 

‘Yeah,’ he murmurs. ‘Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 26 February 2015
> 
> Thanks for reading - I hope you enjoyed it and will enjoy the rest just as much! :)
> 
> Clues borrowed from Cryptic crossword No 26,342 on The Guardian (Tuesday, Aug 19 2014).


	2. Chapter 2

Kent goes home and finds that he’s suddenly exhausted, too tired to even be bothered complaining about the mess his flatmate’s left in the sink. He crawls into bed and sleeps, and although he doesn’t wake until the next morning’s alarm he’s sure he hasn’t rested well. He can’t remember any troubling dreams, and he gives up trying to when he’s brushing his teeth; a disquieted mind’s enough to disrupt sleep, and he should know that there doesn’t have to be dramatics for the effect of stress to be noticeable. 

The incident room feels wrong without Chandler. It’s a ridiculous thing to think because Kent’s worked under enough DIs and in enough stations to be accustomed to change, but maybe that says something about Chandler, how fundamental he is. Miles called him a paper policeman five minutes in; near on five years later Chandler’s gone so far in the other direction that it seems as if they’ll have to carry him out, one day. The thought makes something squirm in the region of Kent’s spine and he’s thankful when Miles appears at his shoulder with instructions.

Riley runs into him when their paths cross at the bottom of the stairs, stopping him with a hand to his chest. ‘Skip said you’ve been to see him.’

Kent flushes a little, though he knows he shouldn’t. She doesn’t mean it like that. ‘Yeah, last night.’

‘He all right?’

There’s considerable hesitation before Kent nods and Riley’s called away by something Miles has shouted. He’s not really in any position to say, and he doesn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. The better answer would be _He’ll be all right,_ but it takes too long to think of. Right now… well, Kent’s not sure. He certainly wasn’t, at this stage. But he and Chandler are not the same, and he’s always known that, so he shakes the thought away and jogs down the next flight of stairs to see if he can find Ed.

It’s after lunchtime when Miles claps him on the shoulder and tells him to get a coat on. Kent does it without thinking, although there’s a hitch in his movements when Miles says they’d best not keep the boss waiting. He can't tell if he's said that just to announce where they're going, or to warn him that he's not all there. Kent just wants to burst out _I know I'm not, skip, but I'm trying_ , but instead he shuts up and stands, ignoring the look Mansell shoots him once Miles has turned away. It's not the same ones he's been relaying for the past few weeks, not quite, but it's a close relation and Kent can't can't really be doing with it. There's too much to think about. Why do they all seem to think it's over now? That going on will be straightforward?

Kent's relieved to find that Miles doesn't seem to think that, either. At least they agree on one thing. Kent retells the events of the previous night to him in the car, when prompted, and fills in the answers to the skipper's questions. It's strangely relieving to hear him grumble about how far away the return to active duty will inevitably be, and Kent can't help but agree with him when he mutters _He'd best get used to being a paper policeman again._ He takes no pleasure in it—he knows how much Chandler’s come to hate pushing paperwork around when he’d rather be out here, trying to change their reputation from a bit shit to bloody brilliant—but he does agree. 

Miles perfected his ability to walk through a building unchallenged years ago. They worm through the cool, arterial corridors as if they make their way through them every day, and for a moment when Miles stops to have a quick word with one of his contacts Kent wonders just how many years he’s spent going in and out of this place. How many faces he’s seen in these halls. If he’ll ever see the same amount. Except it doesn’t matter because Miles is ushering him on and they’re rounding another corner. 

Kent’s suddenly inordinately worried that the same faces from last night will reappear, although he knows it’s mad: that’s not how shifts work. Anyway, it can’t the first time someone’s fibbed to get to a patient’s bedside. And what would happen if they did find out? Kent doubts it’s a criminal matter, but even if it was, the Met would probably have him arrest himself just to save on expenses.

He should probably worry about what Miles would say, actually, but that doesn’t really bear thinking about. But the man doesn’t say anything—he shoves a handful of pamphlets in his direction instead, about which Kent makes a dismayed sound. Miles fixes him with a sternly amused look as he leans on the ward door that says he knows that, despite what motions Kent goes through now, he’s going to attack the provided literature like there’s going to be a test as soon as he gets the chance.

But he doesn’t linger over it long enough for Kent to think up some oblique rebuke—because he doesn’t really want to say any of it out loud, either, and as annoying as Miles’ little looks can be, at least they’re silent—and Kent just follows, tucking the papers into his inside coat pocket, as they round the corner to the appropriate ward. 

There’s no fanfare with Miles when Chandler realises that they aren’t another pair of nurses on their rounds.

‘Looking a little perkier today, boss.’

Kent’s startled into half a laugh, because he reckons that Miles hasn’t called anyone perky before, and judging by the look on Chandler’s face he’s not in the mood for such jaunty adjectives. Kent’s not sure any of them are, but Miles is keeping that smirk on his face, so perhaps there’s some method to the madness. It’s so far off the mark, too, that it sounds like Miles has just been planning that as his opening regardless of how Chandler seemed. It’s what he’d wanted them to do for him, anyway. Back when.

Kent shoots Chandler an sympathetic look over the skipper’s shoulder anyway. It’s the best he can do, for now. 

‘I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’

The words are for the both of them but Chandler ends up looking at Kent when he says it. It’s just a combination of happenstance and sequence—he’s got to look at them both, hasn’t he, and the sentence has to end somewhere—but Kent still flushes a little. He’s never been able to prevent that. It’s one of his (many) weak spots.

‘Why not? You’re our governor,’ Miles fills in. ‘Wouldn’t leave you to fend for yourself. Now, how’re you feeling?’

Chandler still looks suspicious, but he doesn’t do anything about it. ‘Headaches, but that’s not new.’ 

Miles overdoes a small sound of surprised disbelief. ‘I thought broken collarbones were a pain in the arse.’

‘You need to review your anatomy books, sarge.’

Kent speaks before thinking—well, thinking it through, anyway, because if Mansell had been there as he usually is then there’d be a satisfying snigger from his direction at that. Instead Miles just shoots him a look that plainly says, _You think you’re funny, do you?_ without actually having to use any words. He’s perfected that over the years, but usually with Mansell and Sanders, and Kent bites his lip with the effort of not automatically offering up an apology.

‘Anyway,’ Miles says, drawing out the word as he slowly moves his skeptical gaze away from Kent, ‘I stopped by the lab earlier. Ended up running into that Lizzie girl. She was rather busy with a few nasty-looking blades but sends her condolences.’

Kent swallows and a flash of jealousy, cool with age, darts through him. She may have not been as omnipresent as Norroy, or Morgan (oh, how difficult it's been for any of them to speak her name; Kent doesn't think he's heard anyone say it out loud, not in over a year, though he's certainly seen her memory on all their faces) but there's only so much banter round the nick and anything involving Chandler and a woman is usually Mansell's absolute favourite subject. He doesn't do it so much anymore--he's more concerned with matters closer to home, ones that stay within the confines of the incident room--but Kent will never forget the day that his and her gazes had accidentally met over a crime scene, intersecting lingering looks when Chandler had left the room.

‘Apparently it only takes seven or eight pounds of pressure to snap your collarbone.’ Miles shrugs as Chandler and Kent both fix him with the same side-eyed look. ‘Still not sure why she told me that, but I suppose it’s interesting enough.’

‘As far as things in the job go,’ Chandler says in that tone that betrays a suspicion of the conversation at large, ‘it’s not the strangest thing you’ve been told.’

‘Buchan doesn’t help. And you brought that on yourself _._ ’ Miles cracks a crafty smile. ‘We all get something from this job. And I don’t mean experience.’

He’s right: Miles’ got a gash on his stomach and more than a passing memory of trauma that dogged him longer than he’ll admit to them. Judy had pulled Kent aside when they’d last seen each other, after, and asked him to keep an eye on him. Quiet, like; not because he won’t notice (because he will) but because Kent’s the only one who’s capable of subtlety, no matter how lovely the rest of the lads are. And he’d done it, until he’d taken his eye off his own back and got his own scars—raised, fault lines—sliced into him. Mansell’s got a deep scratch running above his ear, thin and pale, and he doesn’t go on the roof anymore. Riley rubs at the new, fresh skin on her hand in the quiet moments, as if she’s not sure it’s all right now, as if she can’t quite shake the feeling of needing an excuse. And now Chandler’s got shades of maroon and blue mottled in his flesh, grit in his hair, and who knows if that collarbone will heal smoothly?

_‘_ Anyway,’ Miles continues, making a show of pulling up a chair. ‘I thought you’d want the full story, and I wasn’t sure if he’d tell it right.’

Kent swallows, smiles, falls back on their usual flippancy. ‘Well, I’m not as good at the voices as you are, skip.’

Miles actually chuckles a little at that, or comes close, at least. Kent quirks half a smile at Chandler, who still doesn't look as if he's remembered how to be properly amused, as the skipper launches into an explanation of the day's events. The guidelines for concussion hover in the back of Kent's mind--he'd played one or two contact sports at school, back when he'd still bothered trying to fit in with the rest of the lads, and whenever anyone had a knock to the head they'd been treated kindly in class, not expected to follow anything closely too soon afterwards.

But it's probably not about the details; it's probably about the gesture. Miles may not be a sentimental man--not all the time, anyway, and certainly not in the daytime--but he knows the value of such things. Even if Chandler's not following it, and even if they don't expect him to, it's the least they can do.

Kent interjects now and then, when Miles asks for clarification on an obscure detail or something Riley had said, but he mostly lets Miles get on with it. And if Chandler watches them both, as if he’s listening to two stories instead of one, then Kent puts that down to someone messing about behind him, over his shoulder. He doesn't look to check because the fact he's fiddling with a loose thread on the edge of his coat is already too telling. He wouldn't have noticed at all if he wasn't already feeling awkward.

They’ve just finished telling him that they’re organising a deep search of Jones’ house for that afternoon when Miles pauses distractedly, his gaze landing squarely on the newspaper Kent had left folded there the previous night.

‘Oi, what’s this?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer before the paper’s in his hands. ‘Those are your capitals, aren’t they, Kent?’

‘What’s the matter with it?’ 

There’s a sliver of alarm in Chandler’s voice; he hasn’t had a lot of good luck with newspapers in the past, certainly not any with their names in them, so Miles peering at the folded page with an expression that threatens true annoyance probably is a reason for concern. It isn’t as if he’s had the ability to read through it himself; Kent has enough trouble leafing through newspapers when he’s got a good grip on one of the things, both arms to call upon, and he can’t quite picture Chandler smearing newsprint all over himself trying to read about London’s latest foibles.

‘He’s only gone and put down _Mansell_ for _stood up to knock drink back_ and _Riley_ for _Star hiding in Ladies’ toilets._ You didn’t even try, did you?’ 

‘I did my best,’ Kent says, smirking a little as Miles’ face contorts in a way that says he’s found the clue that corresponds with his name. ‘Given the circumstances.’

‘You’re getting a bit big for your boots, lad. Pen, please.’

Kent obliges out of habit more than anything else, because Miles is smirking in a way that’s dangerously familiar, and Kent peers around the sergeant’s elbow just far enough to watch him fill in _Chandler_ for ten across: _Tension in an arm? Slightly_. It doesn’t fit—that would be too perfect—but it doesn’t deter him; Miles just scrawls the last letter outside the grid.

‘There,’ he says, pocketing Kent’s pen and leaving the paper on the edge of the bed. ‘Now you’ve got the full set, boss.’

‘Just what I’ve always wanted.’

Miles smirks; Chandler's adopted that sarcasm from him. But there might be something a little more too it than that, something that Miles misses when he continues on, telling Chandler something about Ed's current line of inquiry (as irrelevant as it is). There's something a little wistful in him; maybe in them both, because Kent could swear that Chandler's eyes keep veering towards him, stood at Miles' shoulder with his hands in his pockets.

But that can't be the case, and Chandler knows that he does have the full set, he's got them all; Kent may have been the only one far enough gone to have bluffed his way to the ward after visiting hours, but Riley had looked a little harried when she'd asked after him and Kent had found Ed sat at his desk with all the usual files closed. He'd had to prompt him twice to get a response. And even Mansell had shuffled by his desk and asked if _Anything had gone on overnight?_ , which on any other day would be a routine question answered by the call log, but Kent had said _He's fine, for now_ and the lines around Mansell's eyes had softened.

‘When they letting you out of here, anyway?’ Miles asks, glancing around the room. ‘You seem right as rain to me.’

There’s so little truth in that statement that Kent wants to call it a lie, though there’d be no point. It serves its purpose, although they all know what’s really going on. It’s all very English. 

Chandler lets a pained smile slip through. ‘I’m being told tomorrow morning. Though I can’t drive at the moment, so I’ll have to sort something out—’  

‘Kent wouldn’t mind picking you up,’ Miles says, not even bothering to glance up to make sure he’s not mistaken. ‘He could borrow one of the station’s spare unmarked cars.’ 

It probably doesn’t matter if he agrees or disagrees, because coming from Miles that’s likely an order. Kent finds himself nodding anyway, because Miles’ assumptions are rarely far off the mark, and _wouldn’t mind_ is putting it rather mildly. Chandler looks dubious, but he always looks dubious, so Kent wills his heart not to drop to the pit of his stomach without it being absolutely necessary. It would show on his face, and he’s trying his best to break that habit.

‘You’re all on duty tomorrow,’ Chandler says. ‘And you’ve still got the case, I don’t want to—’

‘We’re probably handing over to CPS this evening,’ Miles interrupts. ‘And I can spare him for an hour in the morning either way.’

Miles is using the tone he gets out when he doesn’t want to be argued with; it’s not stern, not yet, but even Kent can tell that there’s no use trying to make excuses to change the schedule as Miles has set it. He hadn’t even known they were handing over, but Skip’s in charge, and Chandler’s expression’s beginning to suggest he’s realised he’s not got much of a choice.

He looks between them both, eyes flicking up to Kent as he picks at the edge of his sleeve at Miles’ shoulder. He leaves his gaze there.

‘If you’re sure.’

Kent feels distinctly as if that’s a statement meant for him, searching out his assent, because he feels himself go eerily still and suddenly hot in that way that slides into something paradoxically cold, but Miles makes a disgruntled sound and reroutes their attention.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘I can’t let it be said that I let my DI walk home from hospital.’ 

Chandler’s mouth turns down, a gentle relative of his usual indignation.‘I could get a taxi.’

‘I’d like to see you try and hail one.’

No one laughs—not because they’re annoyed enough to find it not funny, but because Miles’ mobile beeps and launches into a ringtone that’s surprisingly loud. Kent wastes no time in getting to wincing and Miles is even quicker at fishing the thing out of his pocket. He glances at the screen and frowns slightly; Kent only catches the end of the number but he recognises it as the station's. 

‘Duty calls,’ he says, dryly. It’s probably someone from the station calling to say that there aren’t enough uniforms on duty to go ahead with the search, after all. ‘I’m parked in a legally questionable zone, anyway.’

Miles’ excuse at the time had been that it’s not for public parking, strictly speaking, but he’s on duty and not a civilian. Now Chandler’s shooting Miles a bit of a miffed look, although it’s not particularly surprised (it isn’t as if he hasn’t bent the rules a few times), and Kent’s starting to feel as if he’ll go (even more) fidgety if he’s not given instructions in a minute.

'I'll see you back at the station,' Miles says in Kent's direction, although he's already got the phone at his ear and one eye keeping watch for any nurses that might notice he's flouting the rules.

'Right, skip.' 

Kent re-takes Miles’ seat once the sergeant’s far enough away, looking back over his shoulder briefly as if he’s expecting to be reprimanded for his troubles. Perhaps he might be—Miles is taking his role as head of the team as seriously as he had before Chandler arrived, when he’d been their DI in all but name—but no sharp word comes and he’s suddenly overly aware of all his limbs and the fact that he’s sitting at Chandler’s bedside in broad daylight.

Fumbling for something witty, he says, ‘I tried to hail a Tube once.’

‘Really?’

Chandler actually looks like that secret smile of his might just be near the surface. Then again, it could just be a very confused grimace. Kent never really knows.

‘Yeah.’ Kent twines his fingers together, thumb pressing against his palm. ‘It’d been a long shift.’

Kent smiles and Chandler gives a little laugh, the movement as slight as he can make it. If expressing amusement is that uncomfortable to do then Kent doesn’t want to think about Chandler in the back of a lurching cab, coming too close to breaking the other half of his clavicle with each rush to beat a red light. The surge of feeling, split between his head and his heart, is so protective that it shocks him into speech just so he doesn’t dwell for too long on what it means.

‘Did you want anything?’ Kent doesn’t really know what he means, so when Chandler arches a brow in question, he shrugs (hyperaware of his shoulders now that Chandler can’t move his) and looks to nowhere in particular. ‘Anything from your flat, I mean.'

Chandler frowns a little. ‘It’s only tonight.’

‘It can feel a lot longer,’ Kent murmurs, studying at his knees.

His few days had felt a lot longer than that. If he’d been asked at the time, he might have said those handful of days were a month. It’s like some terrible version of jet lag and forgetfulness that gets you that way; he’d been lucky that he’d eventually had something, at the very least, to anchor him. And if he’d ached for something familiar, something that wasn’t starched to within an inch of its life or smelling of hospital bed, then he daren’t think of what that feeling will be like for Chandler, when it hits him. If he’s anything like Kent, it’ll be at one in the morning when he’s woken with a start and can’t get back to sleep again, and he’ll feel bloody awful. To put it lightly.

‘I could go,’ he says, just to fill the silence, just to move this a little bit forward. ‘If you’d be comfortable with that.’

Chandler still looks undecided. ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t mind?’

‘Yeah, it’s fine. Really.’

It’s not, really. It’s actually bloody terrifying but Kent would do it for him. The noble thing to think would be that he goes into the field every day for this man, under his orders, but sitting there waiting for Chandler to say something as the rest of the ward potters on around them, the prospect feels very much more dangerous than their usual callouts.

(That probably counts as sacrilegious.) 

‘I don’t want Miles to get on to you.’

Kent whisks a tentative glance at Chandler. ‘I doubt there’s much risk of that.’

Kent might be soft on Chandler but Miles is soft about him; he’ll be using his powers for good, now he’s a de-facto inspector. Anything Chandler wants he'll get, because he so rarely wants anything and never lets them give it to him. They had to ambush him with that last birthday do; he'd had no idea it was happening until the day before (probably had very little idea they knew when his birthday was, actually), and even then Miles had to pester him into accepting with a strangely meek expression, more than half-pleased but still hung up on on feeling like he's putting the rest of them out, somehow. As if they weren't all standing there on the other side of the glass, stealing glances when there was a lull in the murmur of conversation. Mansell had five quid on them celebrating without him, Riley had five on the opposite. Kent abstained, like he always did, for fear of showing his hand. In the end Mansell had just ended up buying Riley a drink instead to call it even.

Not that any of it matters.

'Do you really think it'd be worth it?' Chandler asks.

Kent's almost taken aback; he's used to being consulted when it comes to criminals, suspects, even Russian prison tattoos, but this? Something so... well, the only word that comes to mind is personal, but it's not really, is it? But it could be. Normally, not even that's possible. 

He shrugs, trying for nonchalance or, at the very least, something like it. 'I'd say so, yeah. But that's just me.'

 'And you wouldn't mind?'

The way Chandler's automatically assumed that it'd be him, and not his organizational skills that would be doing the collecting, makes warmth fizz through Kent's bloodstream in a way that's not entirely comfortable.

He smiles, channeling all his preemptive sheepishness into gesture. 'As long as you don't live all the way out in Surrey, sir.'

Chandler smiles, a little unevenly, and settles back against the bedding. ‘Even I’m not that impractical.’

Kent huffs a quiet chuckle and tries to ignore the way he can tell the painkillers must be wearing off a bit. Or maybe his being there is aggravating; it might be, after this long. They were only supposed to be dropping in, anyway, though that does beg the question why Miles left him here. But as he’s studying the speckle of the floor tiles Chandler clears his throat and tells him, plain as day, what he’s not quite dared to ask. He could have looked up his address years ago on the systems, but he’s either never been brave enough or demoralised enough to bother with that. He’d hoped for something a little more meaningful than snooping—though whether or not this is better is probably up for debate.

‘I’ll, um—’ he says, once Chandler’s finished. ‘I’ll need your keys.’

‘The second drawer down’s got all my personal effects in.’ Chandler doesn’t gesture, though the temptation’s still there; Kent can see in the way his gaze flickers quickly to his shoulder, as if double-checking. ‘They should be in there.’

Kent looks at him for a moment longer, some part of his brain still expecting him to lean over and search through the items himself. It’s idiotic, but even when it’s necessary Kent feels as if he shouldn’t mess about, even though he’s not, even though he’s been asked to. It’s a hard habit to break, all of this, and maybe he doesn’t have to. It does have to bend, though, so Kent reaches for the handle and goes immediately for the set of keys that have slid to the back. He tries not to notice anything else, but it’s been his job to notice things for too long, and his gaze catches on the pristine screen of Chandler’s mobile.

‘Are you sure this is your phone?’ Kent asks with a shadow of a smile, holding the mobile aloft for a moment as he slides his other hand to the back of the drawer.

Chandler makes a small, low sound that’s halfway between a laugh and dismay. ‘I break a bone and yet that glass screen makes it out without a scratch.’

‘It’s just a matter of getting the angle right,’ Kent says.

There’s only a second before he can feel the stain of colour across his cheekbones and his oxford collar starts to squeeze as the awkward, almost-innuendo silence stretches. Kent’s not even sure Chandler’s caught it, or if it’s there at all and this is just another instance of his mind crawling into the gutter when there’s no need to be there, but as he sits back he can actually feel himself flush hot. He hasn’t had enough sleep for this. 

‘Right, then,’ he says, slipping back into something that’s probably overly professional, but with Chandler it can’t hurt. ‘Anything in particular?’

*

Kent arrives just as a woman’s leaving the building, and he smiles his thanks as she holds the door open for him. No matter how many times he’d repeated the four-digit code to himself on the way here, he couldn’t shake the fear that he’d just forget it all when faced with the keypad. He can’t quite make his brain stay on any one thought for very long, because the keys to Chandler’s flat are in his pocket, and if that’s not a reason to half lose his mind then he’s not sure what is.

He composes a quick text while he waits after calling the lift— _Running an errand, back asap—_ and sends it to both Miles and Riley. It’s a toss up as to whether Miles will read it, but Riley will and it’s best to cover all his bases. The skipper has a love-hate relationship with technology; they respect each other at a distance and require a mediator. 

When he comes to the front door, seven floors up, it takes him a couple of times to get the key in the lock. He worries, for a moment, that he’s somehow got the wrong building or the wrong door or the wrong key (or, knowing him, all three) but eventually the metal slips into place and turns with ease. Kent leans into the door, tries not to wonder about how many times Chandler’s done this, and walks inside. 

It’s quiet, that’s the first thing Kent notices. He shouldn’t, because it’s so inconsequential, but as he shuts the door behind him and automatically twists the lock back into place it’s all he can think. His presence feels a little like an intrusion, despite the invitation, and no matter how much he tells himself that any unoccupied place is going to be quiet he can’t quite shake the feeling. That’s his aunt’s fault, that—all her stories, all her theories. Too many ideas without explanations.

Funnily enough, she’d probably say the same thing about Chandler. She’d think he’s a mess of ideas without resolution. Kent wrinkles his nose at the thought as he walks through to the sitting room, careful to keep quiet despite his solitude; Chandler would hate being the subject of metaphysical conjecture. At least, Kent thinks so. He has to remember that he doesn’t know him, not really, not in the way he’d ideally like to—but he can make pretty damn good guesses.

The quiet is broken suddenly by the intermittent sibilance of the drills of the construction on the opposite street that Kent had sidestepped on the way in, and Kent breathes an irrational sigh of relief. It breaks the reverie and the flat’s suddenly just a flat, although there’s still the itching at the back of his mind that he shouldn’t look too closely at anything. A strange impulse of exaggerated respect. He tries to shake it off—he’d offered to do this, after all, and Chandler had handed over the keys willingly, he knows what’s going on—but some part of him still feels it more keenly than it should.

He tries to push through. Kent had been prepared for the possibility that Chandler’s flat might feel a little bit like a showroom, as if it’s the especially nice flat they walk prospective buyers around when they’re actually in the market for the darker, less sleek unit three floors below. It’s a bit disconcerting to find that it’s not. He should have known, really, because although Chandler’s office is spotless and the epitome of organisational prowess, it’s still his. Maybe it’s just because they’ve worked together so long and that length of exposure makes at least some things familiar, but either way, it’s Chandler’s flat. Kent can tell it’s Chandler’s flat, and that’s a little more pleasing than it should be. 

Still, it’s not the sort of place where you’d wipe up a bit of milk that’s splashed out of the tea with the sleeve of your jumper.

It is, however, the sort of place where you’d be terrified to hold a glass of red wine; a quick glance at the kitchen reveals that Chandler’s even more of a risk-taker than Miles thinks, because there’s a few bottles of the stuff about and no discernible stains on the carpets. Apart from the prevalence of light tones, Kent gets the distinct feeling that everything has its place and that his just being there is disruptive; it’s ridiculous, he knows, because he’s the only one there and he’s not going to trash the place and Chandler had (more or less) handed him the keys himself. But there’s something about the feeling that’s like an approaching train, the suction on the platform and the ferocity of forward motion, that makes his fingers twitch in anticipation at the thought of disrupting something. Just to prove he’s been there. 

Kent takes a steadying breath, despite not really needing it, and steps further into the room, curling the keys back against his palm and into his coat pocket. He’d passed the hooks at the door but decided that, since he wasn’t staying, he should just keep the outerwear on. It’ll stop him from lingering too long. He’s here to do a job, after all.

And it’s not like he’s not leafed through the contents of enough people’s flats before.

It’s a bit presumptuous but Kent assesses the sofa with an occupant’s eye, cross-referencing it with all the others he’s slept on over the years, and he reckons he’d be all right bunked on that for a few nights. If he has to. He doesn’t want to impose but there’s a part of him that gets fluttery with distant anxiety when he thinks about Chandler being discharged to an empty flat. He’s been a policeman long enough to have the list of possible complications from even the slightest head injury memorised. He doesn’t like knowing, not in situations like this, but he does. He’s come across a few too many one-punch homicides (historical and not) to be lackadaisical about relatively minor injuries anymore.

The thought makes his stomach lurch, a little, and he makes his way towards the bookshelves on the opposite wall to distract himself. It doesn’t matter what’s there, really—whether or not it’s interesting. It’s just to shift his mind to something else for the time being, until he can sit down and actually sort through the mess that’s his head. (Not that Kent’s had the time or the inclination to do that for the past decade. His aunt’s always horrified by his aura, whatever that’s supposed to mean.)

Kent leans a little towards the spines, hands clasped together behind his back as if he doesn’t quite trust himself not to maul them. It’s neat, the bookcase, nowhere near the haphazard constructions he’s got leaning against his own walls with as many books resting horizontal as vertical. But Kent recognises a few names, a few titles; he and Chandler aren’t too different then, just in execution, and he knew that already. It’s when his inquiring gaze reaches the hardback editions of Keats—the sort with gilt lettering and no dust jacket, ones you actually have to go into a bookshop for—that he finds himself smiling.

Then he can’t help but picture Chandler in a bookshop, and he can’t decide between the image of the Chandler that’s meandering, curious, and the one that’s in-and-out, looking for a specific edition. Not that it’s of any consequence. Not that it _should_ be of any consequence. (But he can’t help but think of Hannah laughing, her _You’re fucked, mate, if you’re fantasizing about walking through the park with him instead of shagging_ , the sinking feeling he’d got when he’d realised she’s the one, out of all of his friends, who’s never wrong.)

He follows the line of the shelf to its terminus and finds, to his surprise, Ed’s first book pressed up against one end. The spine’s a little duffed, as if it came into sudden and violent contact with a hard surface, but the rest of it’s fine. Smooth and full-colour, unlike the charred paper that Kent and Chandler had watched fill that park bin. He must have had it already, by then, or maybe it had made its way to the evidence desk; either way, Kent can’t quite decide which is more likely: that Chandler kept it because of something to do with the case, or because it’s likely one of the last editions still knocking about and Ed’s his friend.

Kent half-smiles to himself as he returns to his full height. Miles has always said Chandler’s too soft for his own good. Sentimental, in an odd way. Funnily enough, he hasn’t said the same about Kent, even with the crying in car parks. On quiet nights, when it’s cold enough for Kent to be able to hear the train from his bedroom window, he’s wondered if perhaps Miles and Morgan were saying the same thing with not quite the same words.

The thought, though familiar and worn by now, still sends an uncomfortable shiver down his spine. Chimerical, he’d called himself late one night, and he’s never really been able to shake the idea no matter how discomforting it is. What he has been able to do is put it to the back of his mind and focus on other things, other more pressing tasks, and even though that’s probably not the best coping mechanism in the world Kent falls back on it now, stepping away from the shelves and getting back to what he said he’d do.

Still, he can’t help but wonder as he walks through the rest of the place. He’s not trying to pry but there’s really no preventing looking around, and even as he spends more time there he can't tell if Chandler would be more comfortable without anyone else in his flat when he’s discharged or if he wouldn't consider going anywhere else, can't tell if the need to be home precludes the need for impeccability.

But, well, he's not sure he'd call this flat impeccable. Not in the way they all mean it, anyway. There's even picture frames up on the shelves, though Kent purposely doesn't look (despite the fact his heart's hammering against the inside of his sternum, telling him to, telling him that this is the one and only chance he'll have to do just that), and blankets folded over the back of the sofa. A low saturated tartan, which Kent wouldn't have put down as Chandler's taste. Then again, there are plenty of things he doesn't know; there must be, there are things that Miles doesn't know, and if he doesn't know them then nobody does.

None of them, anyway. Maybe somebody does. Somewhere, out there. 

But he's not here to think about that (he shouldn't think about that), so he shakes the notion away from his head (but he can't, not really, because it's true and the truth is sticky, they know that, they know that better than anyone) and gets back to the task at hand. Her's there to follow instructions, no more. To fulfill, not to extrapolate. He does enough of that on his own time, let alone at the station.

Everything’s where Chandler said it would be, which is unsurprising. Kent carries out his undertaking trying to keep his eyes only on the task at hand—he’s spent too long having a nosy around already, even if it was just the bookshelves—and he deletes the items he’d noted down on his phone while en route one by one, until the bag’s full and the document’s empty. 

Once he’s back in the sitting room (safer territory, as far as he’s concerned, although not entirely a terra firma), Kent contemplates his options. He feels as if he should do something helpful, to make up for intruding; he spots the dishwasher and considers checking if it needs emptying, just to save Chandler the trouble, but he can’t decide whether or not it’d actually be helping. There’s a thin line, with Chandler, between lending a hand and meddling and Kent’s never entirely sure which side he’s on. He decides against it—it’d just prove he’d been here, and he’s not sure he wants that any more than Chandler does—but like most things that play out in Kent’s mind that have to do with Chandler, it’s not a confident decision.

He looks back into the flat one last time as he pulls the front door open, overnight bag weighing on his shoulder. He justifies it to himself as just one of those normal things people do, checking that they haven’t left anything in a stupid place or that the couch hasn’t spontaneously combusted in the three seconds they haven’t glanced at it. But, deep down, he knows it’s not—it’s looking for something, anything, that might strike him as familiar. Evocative of… something. God knows what. Kent reckons he’ll know it when he sees it, then he remembers he shouldn’t even been looking at all and he slips across the threshold, locking the door behind him. 

It’s like he knows Chandler well, but not nearly enough at all. He sees things he’d think he’d like, reads things he’d think would interest him; the problem is he’s got no idea how to breach it, how to say, _Hey, I thought of you_ , without having _I think I love you,_ come out as well. It doesn’t matter if it’s true, it’d come out anyway. Kent’s always been like that. Perhaps the biggest problem of all is that Kent knows Chandler enough to understand that he wouldn’t know how to take such offerings, either. He puts up with it from Miles through sheer desensitization. Kent’s always been hyperaware of what he’s not done—not said. He even somehow manages to miss opportunities he’s taken. That’s quite a trick, yet it’s the only one he’s been able to pull off and he can’t help but feel short-changed.

* 

By the time Kent’s back at the hospital, pacing his way through the halls, he’s reminded that time does, in fact, pass. The ward’s closed to visitors and he’s greeted by a matron who seems as if she’d frogmarch him out the building if he as much as suggested he was going to challenge her authority to keep the doors firmly shut. After a moment’s consideration, he decides not to try, for all their sakes.

‘Could you make sure this gets to him, then?’ Kent asks, indicating the bag on his shoulder.

She looks a little unconvinced about the necessity of the situation, but agrees nonetheless. The problem is that it’s not as straightforward as Kent would have originally thought. He’s got Chandler’s keys, to start with, and then there’s the question of why the delivery’s arrived without its messenger. Which are probably not as problematic as he thinks they are, but it still makes Kent pause as he hands over Chandler’s things. There must be a hitch in his movement because the matron suddenly starts watching him a little more closely, if that’s even possible.

He quickly settles on keeping Chandler’s keys on him rather than tucking them into the bag; it feels presumptuous, but that’s always going to be the case and Kent tells himself that Chandler would probably be happier knowing that his keys were with him, someone he trusts well enough to take out on investigations with him, rather than left at the mercy of whoever it is who’s going to deliver his things through the last set of doors. It’d probably be best keep all the variables known. 

He writes as much on the note, the construction of the letters a little wobbly as he tries to scribble faster when the matron crooks an eyebrow at him. Kent considers, for a rash moment, getting out his warrant card and citing official business, but he’s not Miles and it’s easier just to truncate what he’s trying to say to another couple of words then fold the page as neatly as he can under pressure. It’s not as good as he’d usually manage—and he’s had lots of practice, these past few years, matching each corner of forms before pressing a crease into them instead of more or less slapping them in half like they used to.

His phone rings just as he’s handing Chandler’s things over to the matron and she fixes him with such a severely disapproving look that he almost cowers and mumbles out an apology. The instinct embarrasses him so much that he actually considers saying that he’s a police officer—homicide detective, even—but something tells him that he’d probably get boxed ears for his trouble so he mouths a sheepish _sorry_ and backtracks out of the place as quickly as he can.

He checks his mobile as soon as he’s through the last set of sliding doors, ready to get back to what needs doing and what he knows how to do, only to find that it’s not Miles or Riley or even Mansell letting him know about some new development. No, it’s two texts arriving under Hannah’s name: _You okay, hun?_ (he can hear the teasing, half-patronizing tone) quickly followed by _You were in a bit of a state this morning._

This time Kent defends himself— _I was not, thank you very much_ —but he doesn’t plan on fighting a long battle. He can’t quite get his thoughts straight enough for that yet, and Riley and Mansell are undoubtedly waiting at the station with baited breath, desperate to find out why Miles went out accompanied and came back alone. Kent slips his phone back into a coat pocket and sighs as he takes a moment just to stare, half-expectantly, at the greying sky.

Nothing happens. Not even the arrival of a drop of the always-promised rain. The universe offers no cues. No clues, either, for what he’s supposed to do. In the end there’s only one course to take, and Kent shoves his hands into his pockets as he turns to walk back to the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 02 March 2015.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the kudos, comments, and support! I love hearing from you all so it's really, really lovely. I hope you continue to enjoy the rest of the chapters! x


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Kent’s barely been in the station long enough to shoot the coffee pot a longing look before Miles finds him and dangles the keys to one of the general purpose vehicles between them.

‘Tell him the Commander’s okayed as much leave as he wants,’ he says. ‘Within reason.’

‘The boss tends to stay within reason.’

Miles adopts a pointed look, then shoves the keys into Kent’s extended hand and says, ‘Go on, out with you.’

Kent doesn’t argue. Chandler’s probably owed a bucketload of leave, anyway.

As he walks through the car park, ignoring his own bike in favour of the nondescript hatchbacks, new things stand out to him: the scrape of wet grit under his shoes, the biting quality to the occasional gust of wind, how precarious balance actually is. He’s been thinking about that a lot over the past couple of days. It hangs around in the background, loitering, as he looks to see which car beeps when he presses the key and insinuates himself in the right driver’s seat. It takes a moment for him to orient himself; he’s never been overly keen on the station cars. They’ve got a bit too much poke for his taste. He learnt in something heavier, with a smaller engine. He sees the point—clearly, they’re police cars, after all, there’s no use with a machine that’s slow off the mark—but it’s just another of his inexplicable feelings. God knows he’s got enough of those.

He doesn’t try to sort through them on the short drive. There’s far too much chance of him needing a hospital bed after attempting something as ambitious as that in traffic. Instead he settles into that familiar disquiet that haunts the back of his brain like an old lost friend and doesn’t look too closely at what the provocation is this time. It’s not as if it matters—the world seems to go on anyway.

The tread of hospital floors under his feet doesn’t change anything, either, which is slightly concerning since it usually does. Yet Kent knows that he doesn’t have the brain space to unpack himself right now, so he sets aside the uncertainty that seeps through his bones—the way he can’t decide whether it’d be better or worse if the place was quiet and not bustling, the way that he’s both comforted and shaken by the fact that he knows his way through the corridors like Miles does, now—and keeps going.

This time he’s recognised, commandeered by a nurse who says, ‘You’re Emerson Kent?’ and laughs when he replies with, ‘Was it something about my face that gave it away?’ It sounds comedic, but he chuckles only out of politeness. God knows there must be something about his expression, Miles cites it as evidence enough.

Plus, he’s here now, and the previous lull of wanting to see Chandler’s gone up a notch. If it wasn’t obvious when he first came in then it probably is now, because he keeps looking at the blank edge of curtain that separates Chandler’s bed from the rest of the ward. Not that it tells him anything. The nurse is trying to do as much, though, so Kent presses his tongue to the inside of his teeth and lets her talk. 

He knows Chandler must be able to hear, but apparently neither of them have got around to setting them right and as much as he should be paying attention and taking it all in (because apparently he’s responsible for him now, Miles had said as much in the massive significant look he’d given him while handing over the car keys) but he’s a little more preoccupied wondering why. Then he thinks that maybe Chandler isn’t actually eavesdropping—he’s got more pressing things to do and think about, and it’s something Kent would do so why’s he ascribing it to Chandler?—so he interrupts with an extended hand.

‘Sorry, could you just go over that last bit again?’

Her obliging nod is a little too kindly and Kent’s immediately worried that she’s spotted something about him—about how hopeless he apparently clearly is—but he listens this time and it’s all relatively straightforward. It says far too much about him that nothing’s surprising. They’ve seen a lot worse, and Miles had been right: it’s not the deepest of scrapes they’ve had. Doesn’t mean it’s not worrying. Maybe the rest of them have more to worry about—Judy, Miles’ boys, Riley’s girls, Mansell… well, he doesn’t seem to worry at all—but Kent knows he spends more time than he really should thinking about Chandler, so it’s really no surprise he’s the one concerned, is it? No one else is surprised; just him. Maybe that should tell him something. Maybe it’s not new information.

(He’s never been very good at admitting the truth to himself.)

‘So, that’s that, and there’s a follow-up appointment in a week,’ she finishes.

Kent nods, says, ‘Right,’ like he’s an old hand at this, and smiles that polite smile that comes out in lieu of a goodbye as she walks away to other duties. The shuffle of the room continues and after a moment’s standing where he’d been left Kent toys with the idea of sitting in the open visitor’s chair, and when it’s clear his (their) exit isn’t imminent, he takes it. He sits forward after an awkwardly formal moment, resting his elbows on his knees as if to hold down any nervous tells before they arise. It’s only when he catches sight of his watch face and realises it’s not just his mind making time limp on for so long that he looks up again, and watches what he thinks might be a shadow behind the fabric. 

He doesn’t want to say _sir_ , because then they’re likely to get a right telling off for misleading the staff, and for a moment he can’t settle on what to do. He can’t very well call him Joe—that would be crossing a line—but sound is crawling up his throat and he’s going to have to say something with it. In the end, he gets up, tweaks the curtain and just says, ‘Hey.’

‘Yes?' 

‘You all right?’

There’s a pause. 

‘It’s more difficult than you’d think.’

It’s not really an invitation but Kent’s heard that note of dejection in Chandler’s voice too many times to be able to ignore it. It’s the voice of three-days-overworked Chandler sat in his office with case notes he’s gone over a hundred times already, unabsolved by Tiger Balm and immeasurable patience. That’s usually when someone steps in—Miles and fry-ups, more often than not, even now—so that’s a precedent, isn’t it?

It’ll do.

He seizes on a moment’s sensation of _Oh, fuck it_ , and crosses the last threshold, dangerously permeable. Behind the curtain he finds Chandler mostly dressed, which is an achievement in itself at this point. What’s more distracting than the unbuttoned shirt is the dark stain of a black-blue bruise that lurks beneath it and the bitten-back expression on Chandler’s face, looking for all the world like he wants to cry out. 

Kent almost makes a small, involuntary sympathetic sound, but he reins himself in. Erica had done that, but only once, and Kent sometimes wonders if the scowl that crossed his face then is still on his brow. She’d also said she wanted to bundle him up in something soft and warm and take him home. He’d scoffed at that too, except he’s realising now that it’s very much a tangible feeling. If Chandler was more of a tactile man, and if Kent hadn’t read enough about broken collarbones to know that Chandler won’t even want himself near him for a while yet, then he might have come more closer to giving in to it.

‘You managed to get your arm in, though,’ he says, gesturing vaguely, just for the sake of saying something.

Chandler gives a little sigh of disappointment that seems to drain a disproportionate amount of optimism out of him, and says _,_ ‘I’m sort of regretting that now.’

Kent almost wants to say _yeah, you’ll think that a lot in the next few days, sir_ , but he can’t quite tell how honest to be yet. He’d just given in to the obscenity of tears, once or twice, when he’d realised that even trying to think about making a cup of tea sounded like a mountain to be scaled.

‘It’s all right,’ he says, because that’s what he always forgot. 

It’s meant to be soothing, but Chandler shoots him a desperate look and something in Kent’s chest shifts and catches like a hitch his his heartbeat. 

‘Look, I’ll do it,’ he says, without thinking, extending a hand. Then he remembers himself and tucks his fingers back into his pocket.  ‘If you don’t mind?’ 

Chandler sighs, regrets it with a wince, and nods slightly. Kent doesn’t smile (it’d be too easy for it to get well out of hand) but ducks behind the curtains nonetheless. He checks over his shoulder, a reflex more than anything else, and his feet tread carefully closer and closer to Chandler. He comes to a stop in front of him, fingers furling against the edges of fabric and slipping the buttons through, one by one. He doesn’t look up to meet Chandler’s eye—because then he would go red, and where would that leave him?—but he can’t help but notice the bruise that’s splattered over Chandler’s shoulder, creeping out from under his collar. If the peripheries look that sore, then he’d hate to have to see the centre, and Kent aches with sympathy. 

He remembers this stage well: desperate to go home, tired when you don’t want to be, oscillating between optimism and hating absolutely everything and everyone in the world. The only thing that can be done about any of it is to go to sleep, just wait for it to pass without actually having to endure it, and if they can make getting home no slower than it absolutely has to be then Kent’ll help however he can. It’s the in-between moments that sting the most; they poke and prod, interrogate, when all you want is the quiet.

He’s halfway through when he forces himself to speak. ‘I couldn’t have pointed at something properly when I was let out, let alone do something as complicated as buttons.’

Chandler huffs a gentle laugh. ‘How’d you manage?’

‘A flatmate who owed me about half a million favours.’

There’s no response to that; Kent doesn’t look up to Chandler’s face to check what it’s done. Instead he focuses on the task at hand and tries to think of anything— _anything_ —that’s not him giving absolutely useless information and advice. He’d been lucky. He’d had a flat full of people who wanted to help, who’d bring him tea even after he’d been really nasty about it the last time they’d tried, who were willing to let him occupy the entire sofa even when it meant dislodging everyone else from their usual spots. Hannah had even taken a day off work when he’d been at his lowest.

(He’d do that. He’d do it if they’d let him. And Kent has a feeling it’s not Miles he’d have to convince.)

He straightens the collar, knuckles brushing against the heavy beat of pulse. This shouldn’t be intimate—it must be something Chandler’s at least peripherally acquainted with, seeing as his suits must be bespoke—but maybe it’s the hidden suspicion that it could be that makes Kent keep his touch light and fleeting, replacing his hands in his pockets sooner than probably necessary.

‘All right?’ he asks, adopting a resigned levity.

Chandler nods. ‘As much as I’m likely to be, for the moment.’

Kent takes another close look at him after that—because an admission of that sort from Chandler is positively an admission of being within arm’s reach of death’s door—but he doesn’t say anything. Chandler’s not as stoic as usual, and yet he’s more so, and Kent can recognise a mask of making do. It’s wanting to go home but dreading the journey back almost enough to avoid embarking on it. It's seriously considering the option of just sitting down where you stand, and not moving, but that's not Chandler's style (to say the least) so Kent leans to pick up the bag he delivered yesterday and hitches it onto his shoulder.

'Come on, then,' he says, as if this is something they do every other week, as if Kent's old hat at collecting Chandler from every hospital in the capital, and that it doesn't worry him at all that Chandler sways a little before nodding.

*

Kent had done a little reading the night before—complete with throwing up a two-fingered salute over his shoulder every time Hannah slowed as she walked behind him on the sofa in order to get a good look at the screen of his laptop—so it doesn’t surprise him that the car journey is not kind to Chandler. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t make him wince in sympathy every time Chandler takes a breath that’s a little too fast; he’s good at hiding it, Kent’ll give him that. Almost as good as he’d been, when he’d bothered trying.

It takes one to know one, after all, and Miles’ll say it if he doesn’t. 

He hopes desperately that his pedestrian’s knowledge of London won’t make him try and go the wrong way around a one-way system; not that it helps that much, because although he’s familiar with the centre of the city he’s not got encyclopedic knowledge of Chandler’s neck of the woods, and it’s sheer chance that he’d known the building at all. And driving a car after so long feels cumbersome; he’s used to his Vespa responding quickly, nimbly, not hauling around all this extra weight. But as much as he notices it he knows that it’s just him, though whether it’s just the usual disorientation that comes with changing cars or whether it’s something to do with how he can’t bear to bring Chandler to much more harm is still up for debate.

Stingy London sun does its best but it can’t beat the crisp new autumn air and it settles against their skin for the brief walk outside. Kent’s almost relieved—it’ll stop him from overheating, at the very least, and he seems to have a predilection for that—but he can’t help but think it can’t be good for Chandler. Realistically, he knows there’s no detriment beyond discomfort, but even that manages to lodge something sharp in his throat. There’s no correlation but Kent can’t help thinking that Chandler’s broken bone was some sort of portent of everything turning the corner. God knows what they’ll find.

Once in the lift, they don’t look at each other for at least five floors. Or, at least, not directly; like most lifts, this one’s got mirrors, and Kent sneaks one or two glances at Chandler’s reflection out of the corner of his eye. Just to check. Just to be sure, though that seems to be a pipe-dream where he and Chandler are concerned. The only thing that it proves is that Chandler might be favouring one side; Kent almost mentions that he should try not to do that, in the long run, but the lift pinging interrupts him. It’s probably for the best.

‘You’re lucky this isn’t my flat,’ Kent says as they get to the front door and he slips the key into the lock. ‘You have to put your shoulder into it if you want to get in there.’

He says it for something to say, really, but Chandler’s mouth quirks a little (though that might just be the distortion of noticing only out of the corner of his eye) and Kent forces himself not to worry about the fact he almost implied that Chandler could convalesce at his. Either way, the door’s only really a problem in the summer, but Kent doesn’t extend the discussion; instead he opens the door and stands aside. 

Kent knows the look on Chandler’s face; he’s worn it enough himself—it’s like coming home after what feels like a long time away, world-weary and tired beyond belief. The world’s not shifted at all, not in seventy-two hours, but it might feel like it has, looking through the haze of painkillers and that little bit of lingering ache they never quite get rid of. Empty places have the air of being left behind in them, even after such a short time, and just Chandler’s being there seems to help it dissipate.

‘Where should I…?’ Kent asks, shrugging one shoulder to indicate Chandler’s things.

It takes a moment, something of a reboot, before Chandler directs him; when he does Kent has to resist laying a hand on his good arm as he passes, just because. Chandler doesn’t look like he knows where to start—the reality is that he doesn’t have to, everything’s on hold for the minute, but Chandler’s never been very good at setting things aside. Not since Kent’s known him, anyway.

He returns with lighter shoulders to Chandler and finds that his gaze, although a little blearier than normal and certainly not as crisp, is on him as soon as he’s rounded the corner. He tries to stop and take a step forward at the same time and falters, laying a hand on the doorjamb as Chandler’s face turns apologetic.

‘You don’t have to do this, you know, if—‘

‘Sir,’ Kent says, feeling much more comfortable setting him straight now they’re more or less back on usual terms. ‘Really. It’s fine. Someone needs to keep an eye on you, at least for tonight. You heard them.’

‘Yes.’

‘And Miles will probably shout at me if I don’t. So.’ Kent shrugs, resigned to the inevitable. Chandler makes it sound like he’s asking a lot more than he actually is. ‘That’s that.’

‘Knowing Miles,’ Chandler says, with put-upon dejection, ‘we’d both get shouted at.’

Kent ignores the small sliver of irrational, unnecessary joy that comes from the reference of them both as _we_. Like they’re in this together. Maybe they are and maybe they aren’t, but it’s just a pronoun. He shouldn’t have to battle down a sense of accomplishment when hearing it.

‘Best avoid all raised voices, then,’ Kent says, trying to inject some levity into the conversation with a lopsided smile. It doesn’t really work, so he signs and continues, cuffing a hand through his hair. ‘You need your rest, sir. For the next few days, at least.’

Chandler looks then as if he’s got half a mind to say something to refute that, say that he doesn’t possibly need that long, then he glances at Kent for a moment too long and obviously decides against it. Kent ignores the prickling feeling that slides across his neck because he knows he’d ignored his doctor’s orders. He’d gone back in ages before he was supposed to, only to be chucked out again. They’ve never spoken about that properly and Kent’s not about to start now. 

‘I’m not going to lie, sir.’ He feeds his finger through the keyring, feels the weak band of metal dig into his knuckle. ‘It’s going to be shit. Sorry, but it’s the best way to describe it.’

‘That’s not encouraging, coming from you.’

Kent almost starts. ’Sorry?’ 

‘Sorry, no, I mean—if Miles had said it, I’d think he’d just be saying it.’ Chandler looks as if he knows these words aren’t really making sense, but he’s started now and he’s going to finish. ‘You… you tell the truth.’  

‘Yeah, well.’ Kent trails off; that’s not what Chandler’s said in the past. ‘It’ll be all right, too. Eventually. If you rest.’

‘You’re too optimistic for your own good, Kent.’

It’s with that murmured admission that Kent puts it all down to the painkillers. He’d said some funny things, been a little more open than he should have been, though thankfully it’d only been to Erica and she only takes the piss out of him for it. There’s little that hung in the balance with that. But this Chandler—one who says things like he’s always thought them, like they’re things that he’d be comfortable saying to him—makes Kent decidedly uneasy. That’s the problem with Chandler: he’s an open book and an absolute mystery at the same time. If he’s going to say these things, then Kent wants him to mean it. Kent wants him to want him to know he means it _._

‘I do a pretty decent leek and potato soup,’ he says instead, not meaning to change the subject but also not particularly eager to pursue it.

‘You cook?’

Kent can’t resist smiling, because Chandler looks so surprised. ‘I do have to eat sometimes, sir.’

Chandler seems to see that as some sort of revelation. Kent lets him—it’s rather endearing, actually, although he shouldn’t think like that while he’s trying to keep an eye on any aftereffects from the head wound—and shrugs just so there’s something for him to do. He’s sharply aware that he may not be the best choice for this. Riley’s young ones have had broken bones before, she knows what to do. She’d sort them all out. Kent wouldn’t be surprised if he muddled things up, actually, but Miles had been rather particular about him being the one here and there’s no point in arguing. And even if he can’t offer Chandler any medical advice, he can feed him.

(God, he’s really starting to sound like his mother. It’s true, then, the aphorism.) It doesn’t matter that it’ll feel like trying to eat an elephant with neither fork nor appetite; it’s just one of those things he’ll have to do. Not soon, though, thankfully, because Chandler looks about twice as bad as he had when Kent and Miles had found him after spending all night in his office chasing the Ripper.

Kent gestures vaguely with the phone that’s somehow made its way into his hand. ‘The best thing you can do is go straight to bed, sir.’

Chandler looks like he wants to argue, like he knows that in some distant past that’s actually only last week he would have done, but he doesn’t.

‘You’re probably right,’ he admits; somehow he looks even more exhausted afterwards, as if he’s given up trying to kid himself. ‘I’ll just…’

Kent wears a closed-mouth smile and nods as Chandler turns away from him. He waits, for a little while, and doesn’t hear any loud thump that would warrant his investigation. Buttons must be easier to undo than do up, too, and Kent can’t quite tell if he’s relieved about that or not. It doesn’t matter, but he still mulls it over, the feeling coiling and loosening somewhere in his ribcage as he walks slowly around the room, aimless with his hands in his pockets.

Time creeps on and the spectre of the station beckons. Kent doesn’t want to leave his post at his bedside—or, well, at the threshold between him and the world which seems to want to see him down—but he agreed to certain terms and somehow he suspects that it’d be worse if he changed them now. Not broken, because Miles wouldn’t argue and Kent reckons that if he’d seen him now he’d have told Kent to stay, no questions asked. But he’s not going there. Not unless something happens in in the next five minutes that makes him think he’s got no choice but to stay (unlikely) or if Chandler asks him to (even more unlikely).

Kent doesn’t quite want to tell Chandler to keep his phone on him, or near him (at least), because he’s got a funny feeling that it’d somehow get back to the rest of the team and he’d have to stand another bout of being called a mother hen, needlessly worried about a man who’s got ten years on him and seems to have managed to survive this long without his hovering. 

Instead he says, ‘I’ll let you know if anything comes up,’ out of habit and although he doesn’t quite catch an answer he nods at the edge of the sofa and turns back towards the front door. He scans the room from the doorway before shutting himself out and doesn’t see the glint of a glass screen, and that’s just enough of a comfort that he can pull the door shut. Kent taps the keys against his palm as he waits for the lift and refuses to look at himself in the mirrored walls as he presses the button for the ground floor. He doesn’t need to be reminded how deep he is, despite the building’s height.

Walking back out to the street, Kent’s struck by how unchanged the place is. He can’t decide if it’s just this stretch of pavement or London or the whole bloody world, but something should have shifted, shouldn’t it? He tightens his grip around the set of keys just before pushing them against the lining of his coat pocket and the sting doesn’t lie—still the same place, the same time.

The fog, emanating from Hades itself, swamps all the usual buildings and makes Kent feel as if the weight of the sky’s on his shoulders, but it’s not as bad as it could be, because Chandler’s in bed and at home and all right, and he’s got the spare key tucked into his jacket pocket for safekeeping. It could be worse. It could be so much worse—they’re not known for getting off lightly.

But, he supposes, exceptions do happen. 

*

He gets back to work to thankfully little fanfare. Miles is out, somewhere; his desk’s got a wrinkled _On inquiries_ note taped to the computer screen. It’s the worst excuse Kent’s ever seen, because they don’t have any questions that need answers at the moment, but it works to his advantage for once so he won’t complain. He drops the car keys on the ever-growing pile of files and sets about peeling his coat from his shoulders. Riley motions with the kettle as he’s trying to reverse whatever it is Mansell’s managed to do to his chair.

‘Boss settling back in all right?’ Riley asks later, kindly, as she delivers his cup of tea.

Kent’s not sure if he’d know if Chandler was or not—he’s got no experience of the baseline, no matter what the rest of them insinuate—but he nods regardless. The steam warms his chin as he holds the drink to his mouth. 

‘He seemed okay.’ Kent thinks back over their interactions, the way Chandler spoke. ‘Tired. It’s not easy for him to sleep at the moment.’

‘Bless.’ Riley sighs, her gaze angled towards the empty office at the head of the room. ‘Tell him if he needs a hand with anything, just to let us know, yeah?’

‘Yeah. I’ve got tonight covered, though.’

She quirks a strange smile: one that should be teasing, but it’s not. ‘Ring me if you need any backup.’

He promises to do just that and welcomes the brief press of fingers she lays on his shoulder. She might take the piss a lot of the time—it isn’t as if he hadn’t noticed her speculating about the state of his hypothetically inked chest—but there’s more honest goodwill in her than Mansell. Erica keeps telling him he’s got it, too, which Kent doesn’t doubt; it’s just buried somewhere underneath a decade’s worth of laddish detritus (much like his flat). But if Riley thinks he’s doing something right, then he can’t be a million miles off the mark.

‘I did some Googling,’ Mansell announces, through a mouthful of biscuit, and it’s in that tone that tells them all he’s not going to be helpful. ‘Sounds absolutely bloody awful, mate.’

‘Don’t tell me.’ Kent lifts a few files, looking for the note he’d left for himself the previous evening. It’s starting to look like it’s gone rogue. ‘All my bones are intact, thanks.’

He almost immediately regrets mentioning bones around Mansell and tenses in a moment’s silent self-reproach. That’s level one sort of stuff for him, not even a little bit of a challenge. Kent walked into that one. Except there’s no follow-up. Not even a significant look and smutty smile. Perhaps that’s down to the fact that he’s already cringing himself inside out—Mansell doesn’t even have to _do_ anything anymore to get the desired effect—but a quick look says he’s not even looking over in Kent’s direction. He’s peering at the computer in front of him (he’s got reading glasses that might help, somewhere; Kent knows because Erica had said and it’s his last bit of leverage) and pulling a face that says he’s getting into the nitty gritty of the material now and it’s not getting any better. Kent would know. He’s probably spent the better part of two evenings looking at the same website.

Then Miles comes back, muttering something about contested expenses and austerity measures and _not another budget cut, I swear, they’ll be after the biscuits next_ and they all take that as the cue to look busy.

*

The skipper somehow appears at Kent’s shoulder that evening just as he’s thinking about reaching for his coat. The man’s got an uncanny ability for timing, and Kent fixes him with an inquisitive look before getting to his feet. It does no good; Miles is as inscrutable as he wants to be, and apparently he’s in the mood for a bit of mystery. Kent can’t entirely blame him—they’ve had very little of that on the professional front recently.

‘You off, then?’ Miles asks, with hands in his pockets in a way that suggests he’s going for a very specific type of nonchalance.

There’s something vaguely threatening—persuasive, the word probably is—in his manner. It’s the stance Miles adopts when they’re approaching known villains, a don’t-test-me sort of look in his eye. There’s a deal to be made here, then. Kent’s just got to figure out what it is. (That’s probably part of what he’s doing, actually; trying to get him to admit to something. God knows what, the man knows everything already.)

‘I thought I would, yeah,’ Kent says. He makes a show of checking his watch and glancing at Mansell’s vacated chair. ‘It’s technically after the end of shift, skip.’

Miles chuckles then, gruffly, like he knew this was coming. ‘You’re preaching to the choir, kid. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t chicken out of babysitting his nibs tonight.’

Oh, right. That’s why. Kent’s tempted to roll his eyes but he lacks the evidence to back up reckless insolence. They’ve seen him approach Chandler once, and seen him fumble; they’ve seen him take two steps forward then three backwards many more times. He’s not scared of him, not really. Nervy, maybe, when it comes to anything beyond their usual script. Or maybe he’s just anxious in his own company at this point, distrustful of both the good and suspect parts of himself.

Miles smirks, although not exactly unkindly, as he motions for one of the files Kent’s been working on for the last hour or so.

‘No?’ Kent says as he hands over the pages. ‘I’d have thought Riley would have told you.’

‘Didn’t think you’d have said anything. You normally clam up if someone so much as thinks about the boss.’

Kent huffs, probably a little too much because that’s a little too close to what you might call a fact. ‘You don’t have any empirical evidence for that.’

‘No, but I have my suspicions, and those are known to be pretty much on the mark.’ Miles crooks a smile as he looks over the top page of forms. It’s clear he’s not really looking for anything in particular and Kent gets a distinct feeling that he’s experiencing what Liam will face when he first asks someone to a school dance. ‘Anyway, you’re going back to his, then?’ 

Kent tries not to fidget as much as he wants to. ‘That’s the plan.'

‘Good man.’

The words sound like they should come accompanied with a chummy clap to the shoulder, a look thick with approval, something that might give Kent a little reassurance that he’s offered to do something that needs doing. That he’s just taking up a role like any other, stepping into the breach. The fact that the reassurance doesn’t come, unspoken or not, doesn’t seem to bode well for Miles not having ulterior motives.

A thought occurs to Kent. ‘I’ll have to stop off at mine first though, so if there’s anything you wanted saying in the meantime, it might be better just to ring him yourself.’

Miles thinks about it for a moment, regarding Kent strangely. ‘No, I’ll leave it. No point disturbing him.’

‘That’s never stopped you before, skip.’

‘Yeah, well, he’s an idiot, isn’t he? He’ll probably be trying to convince himself he’ll be a hundred percent all right by the day after tomorrow. He doesn’t need the encouragement.’ Miles turns to slide the file into the pile of similar ones on the edge of his own desk. ‘Just tell him I’ll stop by when I next get the chance.’

‘Right.’

‘What, didn’t think we’d leave it all to you, did’ya?’

‘Dunno,’ Kent admits; he doesn’t want to feel disappointed, he knows he shouldn’t, but it still sows its seed somehow. ‘I haven’t really thought it through.’

He’s not sure whether or not he’s just not had the time or whether he doesn’t want to think about it, whether he’s afraid to. It doesn’t really make sense, but when does anything that has to do with the inside of his head do that? He’s just doing his duty—perhaps not that which is prescribed by the Met, but that which friends are supposed to take on, and even Chandler has to realise they’re friends, hasn’t he? Of some species, anyway. The troubling thing is that Kent can recognise the guilty curiosity that comes with the responsibility. There’s something prying about it, and putting a word to it makes his skin crawl, but Kent knows he can’t deny its existence entirely. And Miles is still standing on the other side of his desk, looking at him with one raised eyebrow, as if he knows. 

Miles probably knows. It’s his job to know things about people. It’s Kent’s, too, and yet he never feels as certain as Miles does.

‘Anyway, skip,’ he says, on a sigh, ‘I don’t think you’ll have much trouble with him. He’s not moving anywhere quickly.’

‘He’ll still give you trouble.’

Kent doesn’t stop himself from harrumphing at that, because Miles doesn’t know how true it is. Or maybe he does, judging from that look on his face. It’s positively Machiavellian and it doesn’t need encouraging.

‘Stop being so pleased about all this,’ Kent says, a little desperate for Miles to stop spurring on the rogue bits of him. ‘He’s got broken bones. He’s been concussed.’

‘Silver linings, kid. Stick around as long as I have and you’ll know there’s always a silver lining.’ 

Kent makes a dismissive sound—it hadn’t felt as if there was much of a silver lining at all, when he’d been in Chandler’s place. It’s difficult to make the two concepts slot together even if the situations are different. Maybe he’s a habitual pessimist. Maybe he’s just jaded. Maybe it’s too late in the day to have a bout of self-reflection and he can’t quite concentrate on anything. In fact he can’t even remember what the file was about, not really, because although he’s been filling in forms and double-checking entries he’s still left a good deal of his mind pondering the fact that he’s got the keys to Chandler’s flat in his trouser pocket.

‘Calm down, you’re starting to sound like the boss,’ Miles warns.

Kent mutters, ‘I never had you down as an optimist, skip,’ as he leans over to shut down his computer, reaching for the collar of his coat on the back of his chair as he steps away.

‘Nah, just a realist.’ Miles grins; it’s mildly terrifying. ‘Go on, get away w’you. His nibs is waiting.’

*

He ends up leaving his bike at his flat; Hannah’s thrilled to hear she can have free use of it for the next couple of days. She’s got a bit of a knack with it that Kent’s never really had, despite all his efforts. It never breaks when she’s in charge, and Kent’s not sure where he’d leave it while he’s at Chandler’s, so that’s one worry off his mind. When he does leave the flat with an overnight bag over one shoulder and Hannah’s knowing smile behind the other, it’s late enough that the Tube isn’t absolutely crushed. He still ends up peering over someone’s shoulder, purposely looking at no one in particular, reading and re-reading the lines of Sassoon printed on the curved edges of the carriage for the centenary. He’d tried to take an interest in poetry once it was clear that Chandler did, but he could never really make it stick. He couldn’t get on with any of them, ancient or modern, sickly or bleak. It doesn’t mean he’s stopped trying altogether, though, and he’s still pondering the slog up to Arras as he buries his hands in his coat pockets and ducks his face against the wind.

This time he does have to input the code at the door, but even though the cold bites at his fingers and he feels clumsy with trepidation, it works. He laughs once to himself in sheer disbelief—something’s gone right for him—as he hears the mechanism shift and the handle give under his hand. 

Again, the flat’s quiet, but this time that doesn’t make much sense. Even if they think they’re silent, there’s always some tell that someone’s there. Kent’s aunt would have closed her eyes and taken a deep breath at this point, ignoring the small sounds of exasperation from whoever she’s with. He does no such thing (because even just standing there, taking two tries to hang up his coat, makes him feel like a bit of a berk) and it’s when he’s staring at the back of his own coat collar, psyching himself up for whatever’s about to come, that he hears movement.

Kent moves through to the next room surprisingly quickly for someone who, a mere moment ago, had been agonizing over whether or not to toe off his shoes for the sake of the floors. God knows what he expects to find but it’s not particularly the image of Chandler appearing at the opposite doorway, looking rumpled in a way that does not imply a comfortable night’s—or day’s, for that matter—sleep. In fact he doesn’t look refreshed at all and Kent has to bite his tongue to prevent him from just telling Chandler to go back to bed, no questions asked. He still might say it, but he’s going to save it for when it might have more impact; Chandler’s face, although paler than usual and scattered with healing cuts, says he won’t be convinced of anything yet.

‘Sir?’ Kent says—it’s as good an opening as any.

Chandler spares him a tiny nod as he makes his way towards the kitchen, warily eyeing the corners of things. ‘Kent.’

‘You all right?’

‘I think so.’

‘You sure?’ Kent can feel his carefully maintained countenance go anxious. ‘You're the colour a hangover feels.’

A bleak expression crosses Chandler’s face and he labours over sitting down, moving incredibly gingerly. Kent resists the urge to fuss more, remembering the words Erica had thrown like axes every time they’d offered her a hand with her broken leg and tries not to remember the way he’d snapped at his flatmates whenever they brought up the crutches. He knows that Chandler can make his own decisions, and that he’s in no position to tell him what to do in whatever capacity he’s in now (Kent’s still not sure), but he still hopes that he’s not one of those difficult patients who refuses to take painkillers on principle. 

Kent doesn’t know why he would be—he’ll be off the duty roster for a few days, at the absolute least, and can afford to be high as a kite while on medical leave since, well, that’s _what it’s for_ —but he still considers the possibility. He’s stubborn enough. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s come to an odd conclusion.

He decides not to push (not yet, anyway) and instead asks, ‘How is it?’

The question’s one of honest concern, but a shadow of morbid curiosity creeps in; Kent knows he’s been lucky, bone-wise. His history is blades and fists, not fractures. Even that had been Erica’s area, not his. None of Kent’s scars are benign. He shifts his weight from one foot to another for a moment, a new(er) nervous habit than all the rest, as Chandler seems to oscillate between considering what to say and not wanting to admit anything at all.

‘It’s bearable,’ he says, eventually. ‘As long as I don’t move.’

‘Ah.’

‘And breathing seems to count as moving.’

Kent makes another noise of pained sympathy. It’s not much, but then again, there’s not much else to say. If there was some magic combination of words, Latinate or otherwise, he could whip out then he’d say them. But there isn’t, and the closest anyone can get is producing regular cups of tea. At least he’s good at that—though Kent keeps trying to imagine Chandler holding his breath in the hope of a momentary respite but it doesn’t work; even in this sort of desperation, when you’ll try all sorts of nonsensical things, he can’t picture Chandler going that far. Then again, he can barely imagine Chandler as he is now even as they stand in the same room, so that doesn’t prove much. 

‘How long have you been awake?’ he asks instead, wary of the drawn look on Chandler’s face.

‘I’m not entirely sure.’

Kent hums. He knows that feeling, waking up at two in the afternoon and not being sure whether he’d slept through the night and the passing of noon or if it was already mid-morning by the time he’d managed to drift off, lying on his stomach even though he’s never been able to sleep like that before or since. There should be a warning, a little see-through sticker with the words _hours may not be to scale_ and _time may be longer than it appears_ , but there’s not enough room on the label and no one ever really reads those, do they?

‘Well, eat something, then take something, then go back to bed. Trust me, it’s the only thing that works at this point.’ 

‘It’s not for lack of trying,’ Chandler mutters, then looks up as if he’s just remembered something important. ‘What about you?’

Kent shrugs. ‘I’ll be fine.’

He’s not that fussy, really. He’s always been the one who could sleep anywhere in his family. A little less so in recent years—being a copper makes you want to look over both shoulders at once, you start to suspect silence, feel a need to inspect the dark—but the point still stands. The fact that Chandler doesn’t really argue doesn’t bode particularly well, but Kent fends off his misgivings by familiarizing himself with the kettle. Chandler points him in the right direction of the mugs when he went in search of them but apart from that he sits there, quiet, and Kent listens to the both of them breathe as the kettle clicks off and the tea steeps.

‘You handed over the case?’ Chandler asks, voice gravelly, when Kent places a mug in front of him. 

‘Yeah. Yesterday.’

Chandler looks at him like he wants him to continue, the set of his mouth murmuring _Tell me something_ without moving to form words at all. Kent’s not sure he should say anything, but he knows he will, no matter how hard he makes himself think about the pamphlets and their calls for cognitive rest after a concussion. Maybe he’s Erica, in this situation: talking about something and not expecting any meaningful response. Just making familiar noise.

‘Jones is still claiming that he didn’t do it, but we can put him at Norwood’s flat. You know that already, though.’ He pauses and wonders which parts are new to Chandler; he’s got into the habit of putting the case details out of his mind the best he can as soon as possible, for the sake of self-preservation. ‘Mansell got access to his bank records while he was in our custody. There’s a handful of payments from offshore accounts, all of them in the Channel Islands. Not the same account each time, though, but there’s one that went through on the day after we found Norwood.’

‘Circumstantial.’

Kent shrugs, leaning back against the edge of the counter. ‘We’ve got Davis’ testimony. Jones tried to claim it was entrapment, but I’ve listened to the tapes and everything was by the book.’

It’s not perfect—it’s certainly not the spotless, wrapped-up-with-a-bow, watertight case they’d all love to have—but it’s not bad, as far as these things go.

‘So we’ve got him on that, at least.’

Kent nods. ‘Miles reckons it won’t take long for him to throw out more names, to take the focus off.’

Chandler huffs, then looks like he regrets it, and says, ‘A man has a man’s heart, even if he acts as a god.’ 

Kent looks back over his shoulder at Chandler’s drowsy words. He wonders if it’s from something, a poem or a myth that he’s only ever heard of in passing, and almost asks, except Chandler’s got that translucent look about him that he gets when he’s really tired and Kent knows that he wouldn’t get an answer out of him even if Chandler wants to give him one. It’s equally as likely to be some sort of pseudo-philosophy unearthed by the narcotics, and if it’s anything like what he said when he’d been high as a kite then it’s best not to press for the backstory.

'Yeah,’ he murmurs instead, ‘something like that.'

Chandler makes another quiet sound, like melancholy assent, and Kent tightens his grip on his tea to stop himself from reaching out and laying a hand on Chandler’s shoulder. The good one. Not that it would be a wise choice either way. When Chandler had laid a hand on his shoulder, he’d felt its phantom pressure for hours, and he hadn’t got a cell out of place.

In fact, he can feel it now if he tries, and that indulgence is such a bad idea he has to busy himself doing something else.

‘Have you eaten?’ When Chandler shakes his head, Kent gestures towards the fridge. ‘D’you mind?’

He doesn’t. Chandler doesn’t subscribe to the stereotypical copper’s fridge, either; there’s certainly more than a few cans of lager and a couple of straggly attempts at food in there. There’s enough to be getting on with tonight, but Kent makes a mental note to pop to the shops in the morning just so there’s something in. He probably should have stopped for milk, actually, seeing as they’re on the end of a carton already, but now he’s inside and warm and Chandler’s parked himself near hard surfaces he’s not venturing out again.

It’s probably overkill, and Kent can hear Miles muttering _Bloody fusspot_ in his ear, but it’s his instinct. God knows how many times he’s been told just to follow that.

‘Miles has gone after ABH against a police officer, too,’ he says, on impulse, when the quiet gets too much for him.

‘Glad to be of use.’

The _for once_ goes unspoken, though perhaps it's a little closer to existence than it usually is. Chandler's a little closer to inexistence, in that case, because this is him but it's not, at the same time. Kent wonders, vaguely, as he stands over the warmth of the stove, if this was what he was like the first day or so at home, if he'd gone as half-lost as Chandler must feel now. Perhaps he had. Perhaps that's why he went back to work. He still hasn't quite figured out why he'd done that; he'd wrapped his head around the prepared excuse— _I heard you've got the Krays in custody, I want to help_ —but deep down somewhere in his psyche he knows that's not the whole story. The problem is he doesn't even know where to begin or where to end; it's a vague, formless search, one he's only peripherally interested in carrying out.

He's perfectly happy not really knowing. (That's what he keeps telling himself.) 

They eat, and Kent answers Chandler's questions about what's going on at the station, adding in the bust-up in the canteen and how there are suddenly whispers about having the street outside re-done. He doesn't mention how long it all takes, how laborious it feels just watching Chandler and let alone being him, yet when Chandler still tries to offer to help to wash up Kent’s tempted to tell him, to his face, that he’s being an idiot.

Thankfully he doesn’t have to, because whatever sense Chandler’s got left must tell him not to argue and he lets Kent get on with things after a single refusal.

‘Oh,’ Kent says, as he straightens from shutting the dishwasher, ‘and Miles said he’d stop by soon.’

Chandler’s mouth sets in that way it does when he’s not best pleased but doesn’t want to say anything about it.

‘Actually, he pretty much insisted on it, but if you want me to put him off…’

Kent trails off as Chandler shakes his head and moves in a strange way that looks like he might have pinched his nose if he wasn’t having to cater to splintered bone. The look’s a familiar one—that you don’t want to do that but you don’t want the alternative either, you just want everything to stop for a bit so you can take stock—and Kent quietens.

Being left to your own devices is nice, for a while. Kent always used to crave it after a day’s work at the station and an evening’s worth of flatmates who had jobs that left them with enough motivation to go out until the wee hours, but then it was a mythical creature. It’s when it stays for days that it morphs into that unwelcome guest that you can’t seem to shift, and even Chandler’ll reach that point eventually. Pain and frustration lowers the threshold considerably, as Kent had found out.

Everyone kept saying with that soft face that was supposed to be comforting but only really came across as patronising, that _cor, at least you get a few days to yourself, eh?_ or trying to lighten the situation with a _I’m jealous, mate, what I wouldn’t give for bed rest_. They’d meant well, and he’d chuckled like he’d been supposed to, but he’d only wanted them to bugger off until he didn’t. He’d been glad to have Ed on the phone, even before he knew what exactly it was for. Chandler’ll be glad of Miles, even if he doesn’t know it yet. Kent would like to think the same of himself, but that’s harder to corroborate.

‘Something about the way he said it makes me think you should probably expect him sometime tomorrow,’ Kent begins again, when Chandler turns to him without prompting. ‘And not the day after.’

When Miles wants a chance to do something, he makes the space for it. Anyway, he’s got a mobile, even if he only just about knows how to use it. An hour away from the station won’t disrupt anything.

Chandler says, ‘Right,’ like he knows exactly what to expect.

‘Go to bed, sir,’ Kent says, with a nudge in his voice. ‘It’d be better if you did.’ When Chandler doesn’t look convinced, he adds, ‘You’ll feel better.’

‘In my experience, that doesn’t always follow.’

Chandler sounds so fed up that Kent wants to tell him that his body will heal whether he wants it to or not, whether he’s ready or not, and it’s just a matter of waiting, but as true as that is it always seems like bullshit when someone’s murmuring it at you. The handy thing about truth is that you don’t have to say it aloud for it to exist.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Chandler says, his tone somehow more self-deprecating than reproachful. ‘Miles always looks at me like that.’

Kent wishes he could laugh that off ( _Christ, we don’t want that, do we?_ ) but he only manages a sad smile that says no one thing in particular. Chandler notices and mirrors it.

‘Give me a minute,’ he says, though not with his full attention. ‘I’m working up to moving.’

Kent nods and redirects his attention to fiddling with the fold of his sleeves, smoothing out the crease where he’s rolled them up to his elbows. He doesn’t want to hover—he might as well just stand there, tapping his foot and watching his watch tick—but the irrational part of him wants to make sure that Chandler doesn’t get to his feet only to keel over. It’s highly unlikely, but he’s spending these first twenty-four hours for a reason and Chandler’s frowning in that way he does when the work’s giving him a headache. 

Chandler does not, however, keel over. He remains steadfastly upright, with one hand resting against the edge of the table just in case. He must know he’s wavering, then, even if he won’t admit it. Their eyes catch, for a moment, and Chandler does something with the set of his mouth that Kent can’t quite identify but makes him feel vaguely plaintive.

‘What about you?’ 

Kent’s almost shocked by the idea that anyone—let alone _Chandler_ —should be concerned with what state he’s in at the moment. His name should not come before relieving the pain that’s making Chandler’s jaw clench in the pause.

‘I’ll sort myself out.’

And he will, even if Chandler tries to argue. Kent’s even willing to engage in a bit of manhandling if it comes to that, but it doesn’t look like it will. Chandler’s not convinced, Kent can see it in his face, but he’s not skeptical either. It’s just a matter of deciding what to file this under—and God knows Kent’d like a hand with that, too.

‘You won’t even notice I’m here, sir.' 

He knows it’s easier said than done—or maybe it’s not, because he’d come out of his room many a time when he’d still been in uni and found some poor girl trying to figure out how to work the dodgy lock on their front door. Neither Nick nor Simon had been overly concerned about making sure they felt at home; probably too busy sleeping off the shagging. Kent used to take them for a coffee, if he wasn’t on his way out to a lecture. That’s how he’d first met Hannah, actually. But Chandler probably wouldn’t class that as a funny story, not really, so Kent doesn’t bring it up.

What he’s trying to say that is that he won’t be pest. Not that there’s anything in his history that would suggest that—Erica might disagree, but that’s not what they’re discussing at the moment and she really needs to stop being the voice of his conscience—but Chandler might still wonder. Miles mentioned to him, ages ago now, that he needed to stop being quite so obvious about his hero-worship (God, remember when it had just been that?) and that he was starting to seem like an indie rock version of Chandler. Kent had just laughed, packed away the stab of embarrassment to bandage up later, and asked who’d told him about indie rock, as if the young had some sort of monopoly on it. Of course, it’d been Liam, but all that’s irrelevant now and Kent’s only thinking it because Chandler’s still looking at him like he can’t quite come to a conclusion.

Maybe that’s something. Maybe the lack of immediate refusal is a good sign. Kent daren’t hope one way or the other; he just thinks of what excuse he’ll trot out next if Chandler decides to argue his point. Miles should do it—the threat of going against his instructions is plenty of a deterrent. Hell, Kent could even get him on the phone. That’d definitely do it.

But he doesn’t have to, because Chandler says. ‘There’s extra bedding in the cupboard at the end of the hall.’

‘All right.’

Kent’s tempted to say that he won’t ferret around, he won’t leave it looking like a bomb site, but flippancy doesn’t seem like the right thing for this moment. It’s too quiet, too close; Kent wonders if anybody else knows what he knows, now. Miles probably does. He somehow managed to get in without a key and without Chandler letting him in, but he’s not supposed to know about that (not really) and Chandler probably wouldn’t appreciate it being brought up.

‘Good night, Kent,’ is the eventual response, soft and wary in the lengthy silence, just before Chandler turns to the hallway. 

‘Good night, sir.’

*

Kent wakes the next morning with his cheek pressed against the plaid throw still folded across the back of the sofa, and perhaps the only thing stranger than padding around Chandler’s flat barefoot is the fact that he can see exactly nothing from the windows. London’s fabled fog’s settled in overnight, cossetting the building in the soft and wet, obscuring the surrounding buildings and the low rumble of noise that permeates every nook and cranny of the city.

He slinks about like he’s not supposed to be there—and maybe he isn’t, not really, he hasn’t decided yet—and he hovers for what’s probably a little too long outside the closed bedroom door. Kent knows that all the business about waking people up every hour when they’ve got a concussion isn’t really relevant anymore, although the urge is still there (if only to satisfy his own concern), but he also understands the restorative power of sleep. He doesn’t want to wake him, if he hasn’t already. It’s not as if Chandler seems like the sort of man who goes for a lie in very often anyway, and the more Kent can do to delay the necessity of consciousness, the better.

It’s both a relief and an injustice to wake up in your own bed. It’s almost easier to wake up with the smell of antiseptic in your nose, of hospital sheets, but you don’t know that until you’ve opened your eyes and it’s your flat and it’s your ceiling and it’s your things and you still feel so far apart from yourself. It’s suddenly not a joke anymore—not that it ever was, just that it could be, before. It could just all be a misunderstanding. This is the real world. You can’t kid yourself anymore.

It’s the same feeling you get when you open the curtains in the morning and it’s still dark, when you’ve braced for the blow of the first ray of sunlight and you get bathed in the dim remnants of the last of the night instead. The first of the day’s injustices. It feels like that, when you wake and remember. When you try and get up, and remember. When you make to go to work and remember no, no, not today. (Not tomorrow, either.)

Kent almost wants to stay, just to be there when Chandler remembers. He’d sit and hold his wrist, or rest his hands in the soft skin of the crook of his elbow, just to prove that the world hasn’t reduced down to the pain. (Not yet—it will, one day, but not yet.) But Kent’s got a feeling that Chandler wouldn’t appreciate the flagrancy of touch, so he wraps his fingers around his phone instead and slips it into his jacket pocket, a soundless movement that still makes him wonder whether or not he's just interrupted, whether he's brought that heartbreaking moment forward. But he hasn't, because there's no snifter of movement from further inside the flat, and there's no reason for him to stay. The shift starts in half an hour, and he's got to get breakfast on the way. He really shouldn't be indulging his habit of lingering for too long.

He still labours over double-checking his many emails for a moment, hovering by the front door, Chandler's keys clasped in the same hand as his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 05 March 2015.
> 
> Again: thank you all so much for the support - kudos, comments, any of it! It's lovely to know that you're enjoying reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. x
> 
> The poem referenced in this chapter is Siegfried Sassoon's 'The General', which is part of the War Poems on the Underground initiative.


	4. Chapter 4

Kent’s bombarded with questions as he slinks his way through the station towards his desk; thankfully both Miles and Riley have decided there are more important things to prod than his soft spots, and they’re interested only in what pseudo-medical updates Kent can report. Not that he’s very good at it—they huff and puff and say ‘Well, why didn’t you ask, you pillock?’ and shake their heads with knowing huffs when he says it hadn’t occurred to him to ask exactly what Chandler’s pain relief regimen is. 

Mansell, for once, is a little easier to deal with. He arrives spectacularly late, still yawning as he lets Miles berate him for a bit, and only turns to Kent once he’s sat himself down at his desk and stared at the scattered pages for a moment, as if wondering how they got there—or, more likely, how on earth he got back here. Once or twice, Kent’s had the same feeling, and he recognises the expression.

‘The boss all right, then?’ Mansell asks eventually, depositing the chocolate wrapper he finds under the first pile of papers into the nearest bin.

Kent doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. ‘Uncomfortable and unhappy, but yes, I think so.’

‘Nothing new there, then.’

Miles chuckles from where he’s stood going through the filing cabinets as Kent tries out his best glare. It doesn’t really work, but Riley chucks a teabag at Mansell’s stupid grinning face with remarkable aim and that’s close enough to vigilante justice to be satisfying. It shouldn’t be, because knowing Mansell he’ll just make his first cup of tea of the day from the makeshift weapon, but Kent’ll take what he can get.

*

Very little happens over the course of the morning. Kent doesn’t know why but he sort of keeps expecting something to come up, like some sort of Pavlovian response to the lack of a bell. He never quite relaxes—which is probably a good thing. He catches several small errors in the paperwork before his second cup of tea.

Miles had pops out at lunch, leaving the rest of them working through. Or, at least, they all were until Mansell’s phone went and he’d taken one look at the screen before snatching it up and excusing himself, too, which meant it’d been Erica on the other end. Kent couldn’t tell anybody why but it still makes him uncomfortable, a little. All right, more than a little, but he’s just been putting it down to a bruised ego and an inability to forget any sort of embarrassment that’s giving him these hangups. It turned out to be a little bit useful, though, because he’d still been twisting his way through his convoluted feelings about that situation when Miles clattered back in, hands in his coat pockets as if he’s just been out on any old inquiry.

Kent hadn’t asked, but Miles still announced that _the boss is pissed off but fed and watered, at the very least._

Then they’d ignored the anomaly of not having Chandler there and got on with it. Kent had expected the day to feel long, drawn out, but it doesn’t. Every now and then he looks up and expects to see him there, at his desk or regarding the whiteboards with a pensive expression, but the momentary feeling of his stomach dropping’s almost immediately overrun by the recollection that he’s all right, he’s only at home, he’s where he should be. Safer there than here, actually, seeing as Miles is on the warpath for no apparent reason and Mansell’s sending a number of texts from his phone that makes Kent want to snatch it away from him.

It must annoy the rest of them as well, though, because when he gets to his feet shortly before the end of shift and announces he’s off, no one points to the clock to shop him. Miles shoots a look across the room that’s supposed to mean something but is too inscrutable to say what; Riley rolls her eyes in Mansell’s direction and offers a smile that reiterates yesterday’s squeeze of his shoulder. Mansell notices none of it. He’s smiling through a faint blue glow and spares only a single hand for a parting gesture as Kent walks towards the doors. There is, Kent thinks, a pointed slap of a file against a desktop behind him, though, so all is not lost.

The route to Chandler’s flat is almost familiar. Kent’s confident in it until he realises that two streets look awfully similar and he can’t just switch off and get home safe like he does with his own flat, following a trail as natural as the spread of his veins. Nevertheless he arrives, ignores the long, questioning look one of the exiting tenants bestows on him as they pass in the foyer, and calls the lift.

It must be strange, Kent thinks as he fights the urge to check over his shoulder that she’s not still keeping an eye on him through the glass doors, to see a new face more than once or twice in succession. He could just be a visiting relative, though. That’s a normal thing that happens; except, he realises as the floors climb, no one would think he and Chandler were related. But what does it matter, anyway? They’re not (thank God, or Kent would have even more problems than he already does), and it’s still not weird. Nosy neighbours be damned.

Well aware that he’s veering on the edge of paranoid, or presumptive, Kent retrieves the set of keys from a pocket and slips a finger through the keyring, twisting the metal back and forth, as he waits for the lift doors to open. It takes a heartbeat longer than it should and Kent’s heart takes a swoop southwards before he’s allowed out with an almost mockingly calm announcement. After that he’s glad to slip the key into its lock and twist.

He shuts the door behind him, careful to turn the lock back into place. And even though he’s got the key to the flat in his hand, he still can’t quite tell what’s presumptuous and what’s not. In the end he hangs up his coat but doesn’t toe off his shoes. He may have spent a night here but they only agreed on that—the first night—and although Kent had left that note there’s no way of knowing if Chandler found it. Kent wouldn’t blame him if he hadn’t even got out of bed today. He smiles at the thought, because God knows Chandler needs the rest, broken bone or no broken bone, and tucks the borrowed key back into his jacket pocket; if his heart’s beat a little quicker than it’s supposed to as he walks through to the main room, then he’ll just have to wonder about that later.

He’s more than a little surprised to find Chandler lying on the sofa in the same place he’d been that morning, propped up on what he can only assume is the same pillow he’d borrowed last night. The note Kent had expected to find where he’d left it is now folded and kept next to the bottle of painkillers on the coffee table, the brightly coloured paper standing proud against the background of neutrals.

Kent may not know where everything’s supposed to go, unfamiliar as he is with the intricacies of the layout, but he’s been in enough off-kilter rooms to recognise them. Something unusual, despite how neat and well-controlled it seems at first glance. Perhaps because of that. It probably doesn’t help that Chandler’s occupying the room much as bodies normally do.

You might even be able to call him sprawled, although as far as Kent knows Chandler doesn’t sprawl, but he looks unusually vulnerable as well and Kent can’t stop that from bringing a lump to the back of his throat. He’s never expected to see himself in Chandler, but there he is.

It’s the sort of thing that happens when you decide to try and push yourself a little too far—it doesn’t matter why, whether you just don’t believe it’s as bad as it is or pride or just sheer pigheadedness—but it becomes quickly apparent you’re in no fit state to do anything. Kent remembers ending up on the stairs, of all places. At least that memory’s still hazy, the embarrassment dulled by having the excuse of very, very strong painkillers—and at least Chandler has the furniture. And his pride. You need as much of that as you can muster, mid-recovery.

‘Evening,’ he says, businesslike, though the tone falls away so quickly that he might as well haven’t have bothered. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

Chandler takes too long to answer; he takes much longer to string together words when he has to use them to admit he’s not entirely all right.

Kent puts him out of his misery with a sigh and, ‘Sorry, stupid question.’ 

There’s no assertion that no, it’s not; Kent ignores the silence and picks his way through the unfamiliar lay of the furniture (his usual route’s currently too close to Chandler to be safe—he’d just end up stubbing a toe or clipping the back of a knee, either of which is an embarrassment he can do without), until he can turn and face Chandler without having to make him twist his gaze uncomfortably upwards.

‘You don’t need to keep coming by,’ Chandler says, his voice smaller than usual.

He seems to take up less space in the room, too, and it’s bloody disconcerting. Kent doesn’t quite know where to stand. Even now, it feels as if he’s managing to intrude on something; Chandler’s the sort of person who needs time on his own, Kent knows, but every now and then, when they’ve been sat in weak pools of light at either end of the darkened incident room, Kent’s wondered if he’s lonely. Not that it matters—he can’t do anything that Chandler won’t let him.

‘I don’t mind,’ he says, eventually, with a shrug. ‘And you look like you need a hand.’

‘I’m fine.’

It’d be convincing if Chandler hadn’t curled his lip and shot his shoulder a glance as if it just said something horrible about his mother. Petulance shouldn’t be endearing, but Chandler’s version is. They see it so rarely. And this, it’s like some sort of myth from Miles’ mouth come true.

‘Sir,’ Kent says, careful to manoeuvre around the coffee table as he backs up to sit on the edge of the armchair, firmly in Chandler’s line of sight. ‘You’ll be fine, but you’re a bit stuck at the moment, yeah? You wouldn’t be lying there at four in the afternoon if you didn’t absolutely have to.’

Chandler mumbles something like, ‘You’ve got a point,’ though it’s almost lost in the low mumble of the newsreader in the background.

‘And you’ll do yourself a mischief if you try to do too much this first week, as my mum would say.’ Kent’s proud that that gets a tiny smile, though he knows from experience that it guarantees nothing, so he still finds himself worrying his fingers as he continues. ‘We’d be a pretty shoddy team if we let you struggle on by yourself, sir.’ 

It might not be in the manuals, but it’s true. There’s something in the way detectives work together that instills a sense of responsibility, logical or not, and they certainly aren’t immune. And maybe it’s because Miles and Kent have seen Chandler from the beginning, watched with pride and awe (respectively) as he’s tried and tried and tried again, that makes them so convinced that if they’re going to help, then they’re going to just have to keep showing up until Chandler lets them. They have to keep imposing on him every time he insists he’s imposing on them, until the imposition’s an invitation and they’ve forgotten where they are on the scorecard. But Chandler never forgets.

Kent just sits there, lacing his fingers together, until Chandler twists his head with a small hiss and mutters, ‘Don’t tell me Miles has drawn up a rota.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ Kent says, but he chuckles at the thought. It’s something the skipper _would_ do. He’d hold them to it, too. ‘But he’s got Judy and the baby, Riley’s got her two, then there’s Mansell but that’d be a bit like letting a bull loose in a china shop.’

He leaves off the _so that leaves me_ , because even if it didn’t, he’d still be the first to volunteer. Maybe they both know that, but maybe they don’t and at crucial moments like this, Kent always lets sleeping dogs lie. Anyway, he’s only got his flatmates, but they know what he’s like and what the job’s like and they wouldn’t really mind not seeing him for a few days. They aren’t joined at the hip. He might get a few cheeky texts from Hannah, but she’s insisted on doing that ever since he’d been in hospital and his phone had run out of battery and they couldn’t get ahold of him.

‘Kent,’ Chandler says, his voice low like he’s two things at once, the voice of reason and the defeated general, still trying for some semblance of order in a ruined world. ‘Your time off is time off for a reason.’

‘To do with as I please, sir.’

The answer comes so quickly that Kent has to stop himself, swallow, and slow down; his truth needs tempering.

‘And I don’t see what’s wrong about spending it helping out a friend,’ he continues, wary, ducking his head. He knows it’s telling, that it doesn’t reflect particularly well on himself, but he studies his wrists as he shrugs with one shoulder. ‘Tell me to bugger off if you really want to, sir, but, otherwise…’

‘No, I wouldn’t…’ There’s a long pause; Chandler sifts through words again. ‘Thanks.’ 

Kent smiles; it’s as much of a returned thanks as it is anything else, because no matter what he’s said, he wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of being kicked out at this stage. Nothing’s ever just a flesh wound; it never stops there. Kent’s sure Chandler knows that, they all do, but he’s not sure if Chandler will pay attention to it. He routinely pushes himself too far—past the end of shift, past wrapping up a case, past the edges of his official responsibility. Kent doesn’t particularly care if it makes him a hypocrite: he wants to warn against coming back too soon, doing too much at once. 

He doesn’t dare say it, of course. Reverse psychology, and all that.

‘Anyway, we all want you back at work sooner rather than later too, sir,’ Kent says, congenially, as he gets to his feet and decides on a cup of tea. ‘You take too long off and Miles might just cross the Rubicon and do a convincing impression of Julius Caesar.’

The familiar feeling of sudden doubt comes over him as he scouts out the kettle, the worry of whether he’s got his history right. He’s not entirely sure if the small sound of amusement that comes from Chandler’s throat—not quite a laugh, those are probably still too tender to bear—is a sign he’s got it right or not, but he turns to glance over his shoulder nonetheless. Clarification’s a decent excuse, so why not?

He tries to follow Kent with his gaze but has to stop; instead he makes a small, intent sound of discomfort that makes Kent think of a bear with a sore tooth. It’s not the right sound—it doesn’t sound like him—but it’s not as unsettling as it may have seemed yesterday. Nevertheless Chandler recovers the best he can, quashing the wince that threatens to mar his brow, and adopts a forced light tone. Not false, just… laboured.

‘Who else’s in the Triumverate?’ 

Kent feels his face go apologetic; he hadn’t thought the metaphor through that far. ‘Ed?’

It’s a shit answer but Chandler smiles.

Heartened, Kent starts where he always starts. ‘D’you want a cup of tea?’

Chandler considers for a moment, then says, ‘I’ll have one if you are,’ as he moves to sit up.

’No, don’t get up,’ He’s almost shocked with himself for issuing what, for him, is the closest he’s going to get to a direct order. ‘I’ll be careful, sir.’

Chandler looks like he has half a mind to apologise, like he does if one of them pops back into the incident room to collect something they’ve forgotten and he’s already started on the tidying up. It shouldn’t be a familiar routine but it is, and Kent adopts the same half-smile he does in the half-dark. The problem is that it feels much more telling when there’s this many lights on and he can’t just turn around and slip away now.

Instead, he swaps his placating gesture for an even vaguer one and asks, ‘D’you want anything for the shoulder?’

‘I’ve had my limit of painkillers for the next few hours,’ Chandler says, looking like he doesn’t want to be reminded.

It wouldn’t be the first time Kent had gone a dose over, but he asks, ‘Ice?’ instead.

‘I’m not an invalid.’

‘You are a bit, sir.’

Chandler fixes him with a look. It’s not one he’s worn before—it’s very similar to frustrated glances he’s shot in Miles’ direction when the skipper’s insisting on doing something his way. Actually, if Miles was here he’d probably shoot back a _That’s bang out of order_ but Chandler says nothing. He’s—well, if Kent knows him half as well as he reckons he might, then he’s thinking. Pondering something. Kent’s got no choice but to smile, tentatively, and hope that perhaps the heavy-handed painkillers might have rendered Chandler a little more receptive to jokes than he usually is.

Kent shrugs. ‘It might help.’

‘Nothing’s done much all day,’ Chandler says, sounding defeated without the energy to even be upset about it. ’The only thing I’ve not tried is tea.’

That’s that, then. Kent busies himself with going through the motions of filling the kettle and making sure he doesn’t mix up the green and black teas. He’s sure that Chandler’s heaving himself into a sitting position while Kent’s pouring the boiling water, but he doesn’t turn to say anything about it. He wants to, and so does the miniature version of Miles that’s taken up residence in the back of his brain, but there’s still something in him that says he was like that, too, that if he could push himself to say something he will. Plus, there’s always the fact that he can’t imagine Chandler slurping , nor does he want to imagine him scalding the already bruised shoulder.

When he returns to the sofa, Chandler’s looking decidedly pained, but he bites out a quiet, ‘Anything go on at the station today?’

Kent finds himself trying to gesture his nonanswer with a mug still in each hand. Chandler watches him with a slight frown, bemused, as Kent deposits one on the coffee table before sitting in the armchair he’s habitually occupied over the past twenty-four hours. 

‘Not unless you count Riley figuring out how to fix that dodgy scanner.’ 

Chandler looks like he might; Kent certainly doesn’t. The only interesting thing about it is that she managed to get the thing back online without resorting to smacking it half a dozen times. As far as Kent’s concerned, that’s some form of dark magic that they’ll probably pay for abusing in due course. 

Kent ignores the trajectory of his own thoughts and asks, ‘Biscuit, sir?’

‘I’ve got enough to be going on with here, I think,’ Chandler says, giving the mug of tea a significant glance.

‘You should eat something, you know. You don’t want to take painkillers on an empty stomach. Being sick’s not that comfortable when you’re a hundred percent; I wouldn’t like to think of how it’d feel now.’

Chandler looks a bit like he wants to retch at the very thought. Kent almost regrets mentioning vomiting at all—because, for fuck’s sake, why? Why had he said it?—but then Chandler nods in his direction and accepts a biscuit. Kent’s relieved, for some reason, because although Chandler must be perfectly capable of looking out for himself, the same could have been said about him and he’d had bad days. The first days home, in fact. No one could blame him for being a little concerned.

(They all will, of course. Where there’s smoke, and all that—not to mention how quick Miles is to notice these things.) 

‘Anything on telly?’ he asks, just for the sake of interrupting the pause. 

‘No.’ The answer’s almost jaded. ‘And I’d know.’

Chandler sounds like the uniforms do when they’ve spent all day combing through CCTV only to find absolutely nothing. He frowns and shuts his eyes—a headache, probably. Kent’s seen him have enough of those (hell, he’s probably caused enough, despite his best intentions) to know the tells, and they’re bad enough without extra knocks on the head.

‘You’re not missing anything worthwhile, at the station,’ Kent says, as if that’s a comfort. 

‘No?’

Chandler doesn’t open his eyes as he speaks, his voice a gentle and faraway version of himself. Kent feels distinctly like he’s been entrusted with something, then looks to the surface of his tea and shakes away the ridiculous thought.

‘Paperwork. Miles spent this afternoon writing the expense report.’ 

‘And you?’

‘Fetching receipts.’

There’s something in Chandler’s face that looks a little wistful at even that, for a moment, then Kent reminds himself that he’s probably just being wistful himself and that nothing good’s ever come from assigning depth of emotion where there is none. Anyway, Chandler might be good at the paperwork bit (better than the rest of them were, anyway, when he arrived and forced them to sort their desks out) but that’s not why he’s there, is it? He spent months disproving that assumption.

Mansell’s chuckle and his ‘it’s not all car chases and beautiful women, you know,’ pops into Kent’s head. He’d gone on to park a digestive between his teeth and still somehow manage to say ‘There’s a lot of dredging through this sort of shit, too,’ to which Riley had responded by confiscating the biscuit and filling Mansell’s arms, outstretched with silent outrage, with a full lever arch file and‘Speaking of dredging, there’s some reports on that which need filing…’

It’s been a bit haphazard, without Chandler there to keep them up to scratch, but it’s functioning.

‘Though, there’s still risk in it, sir,’ Kent says, smirking at the sudden memory. ‘We had another injury earlier.’

‘What?’

‘Ed ran over Mansell’s foot with a cart.’ He tries not to say it with too much relish. He slips into schadenfreude far too easily these days. ‘Though you know what he’s like. Last I heard he was still claiming he’ll never walk again.’

Chandler exhales through his nose as he settles back; it seems amused, somehow. ‘An unlikely conclusion.’

‘Yeah, plus it’s coming from a man who was once bruised by a power shower…’

Or at least, so he claims. It’s a plausible excuse, Kent has to admit, because some of those things are lethal; however, he thought at the time that it was a bit coincidental that the marks were about the size and shape of a mouth, but he hadn’t wanted to think about that then and he certainly doesn’t want to now.

‘I take it you’re not interested in my friend from school who had two ribs broken by a hug?’

Chandler fixes him with a strange expression, like he’s trying to suss something out of him; the problem is that it doesn’t work when one of them’s lying down. He gives up the attempt and sighs, something almost amused playing over his fatigue-softened features.

‘How do you find these people?’

Kent laughs, once, the sound startled out of him by Chandler’s warm tone. ‘God knows, sir.’ 

They settle into another silence, this one longer than the last. Kent’s surprised to find he doesn’t feel an immediate urge to break it. It’s not that it’s comfortable—more that he’s still preoccupied with the tone of Chandler’s voice. He’s not used to a Chandler who sounds content. There’s no real way of knowing for sure, anyway, but Kent smiles into the edge of his mug and settles himself into the deceiving comfort of _maybe_.

* 

Kent finds himself in and out of Chandler’s flat for the next week; if he’s going to be honest, he’d admit that he’s been there more often than his own flat and that he’s already found a better coffee shop around the corner from Chandler’s building than he’s got at home. If pressed, he’ll use that as an excuse for why he’s woken up on Chandler’s sofa four nights out of five, because it’s probably the most feasible thing he can come up with. And they don’t have to know that he leaves a cup of tea on the kitchen counter before he goes now. They don’t have to know that it’s always gone when he gets back, either.

He amuses them with updates ( _His shoulder’s gone a horrid sort of pallid green_ was a particularly popular one, as were _He's in a rare mood this morning_ and _He’s doing a rather wonderful impression of a vicious and grumpy swan_ ), but he doesn't mention that they've settled into a sort of routine. It’s a bit of a strange one, but not that difficult to understand, really, if you think about it. Kent rarely sees Chandler if he's in the flat in the morning; he's just there, aware of the fact they're existing on opposite sides of the wall, but there just in case. It's a little bit like how Kent had been with his first set of flatmates after uni, except they actually were skirting around each other; this isn't avoidance. It's... actually, Kent can't put a name to it.

Not that he has to: Mansell’s doubled his efforts to become the world’s first walking repository of innuendo. The one saving grace is that he’s about as veiled as a flashing neon sign; you always know when the next one’s going to surface. Riley had lopped a balled-up page at him before he’d even got halfway through his grinning rendition of _Have you had to prop him up in bed yet?_ Kent takes what’s probably a little more satisfaction than he should out of the fact that it hits Mansell squarely between the eyes.

The onslaught calms down a little after lunch—must be something to do with digestion—but Mansell gives it up after a particularly vigorous eyebrow waggle late in the shift, which was probably more for Riley’s benefit as she walked out than anyone else. Kent takes the opportunity to use the brainpower now freed from having to be on guard to contemplate what he’d decided to do that morning. He’d managed to convince himself, lying on his back on Chandler’s sofa watching shadows chase each other across the ceiling, that doing what he’s proposing to do can’t be much more incriminating than his mere presence in Chandler’s flat in the small hours. Not that Miles would actually refuse him the time off—Kent doesn’t doubt that bit—but they both need to keep in mind how this all looks. He knows he’s been indiscreet in the past.

Not that he enjoys thinking about how he has a tendency to embarrass himself.

Kent gets up carefully as soon as Mansell stops loitering and buggers off through the doors leading through to reception; he lingers to talk to someone, though, and Kent mutters something (satisfyingly) unsavory under his breath as he realises he'd still have a clear line of sight straight through to Chandler's office from there. Not that it matters, really, but there are things you do in front of Mansell and there are things you don't. And Kent would bet that, as innocuous as this undoubtedly is, this is one of the latter. 

So he sits back down and clicks around, looking for nothing in particular for a few minutes, until Mansell raises a hand in farewell to whoever it is he's cornered and ducks out of the front door, flicking up his coat collar against the rain. He rolls his eyes at that—even Erica admits it makes him look a bit of a berk—but he doesn't dwell on it. It'd be just his luck that something would be called in now, or one of the uniforms would bring through a file that needs reviewing by the first available detective before the night's through, so Kent gets up and makes his way to where Miles is hovering in Chandler's office.

It's funny really; they'd been so opposite at the start, so intrinsically binary opposites, but somehow now Miles looks as if he's not out in place in that office. Kent's not sure if it's the man or the room that's changed; Miles has always been a gruff man, no-nonsense, but he's also always been kind. If he hadn't been, then Kent wouldn't even be thinking about asking what he's about to ask. 

Kent leans his shoulder through the half-open door. ‘Skip?’

Miles looks up from where he’s standing carefully leafing through the pile of papers on Chandler’s desk, turning them as if they’re components of an unbound book to maintain the order, and motions for Kent to step through. He doesn’t give him much of a chance to decide on an opening.

‘I can tell from your face this is about the boss.’

Yeah, that and the fact that he’s left this conversation so late that everyone else has gone home. Kent knows it’s obvious. He’s not sure whether or not it’s useful anymore. To be honest, he’d like some of his thoughts back, thank you very much.

But he’s always been bolder in thought than action, so he meets Miles’ eye and says, ‘Yeah.’ 

‘It’s been about a week, hasn’t it?’

‘Just about.’ Eight days, actually, if you count back. ‘That’s, um. That’s what this is about.’

‘Spit it out, lad.’

‘He’s got an appointment with the orthopaedist tomorrow and, well, he still can’t drive.’ Kent’s got a feeling he’s panicked and somehow skipped a few steps ahead. ‘I mean, he’s got to go in, but it’s really not very easy for him to move yet and he certainly wouldn’t want to grapple with a manual transmission and you know what he’s like about public transport, skip—‘

Kent runs out of words when he notices that Miles is looking at him and somehow managing to say _Yes, I know, stop waffling and get to the bloody point_ with a crook of an eyebrow.

He sighs, wrings his hands, and says, ‘It’d probably be a good idea if someone went with him.’

Miles looks at him like he knows he’s thought about this for longer than he really should have. That he’s wrestled with the myriad of options, weighed up his concern about being seen as overly (suspiciously) dedicated to his superior officer and his concern for Joseph Chandler. Only five minutes ago had he decided to throw caution more or less to the wind and go with his gut. He’d been ready to trot out the hypotheticals, or point out that Miles had virtually frogmarched Riley to the doctor (all right, Dr Llewellyn, so he marched her to the morgue, which isn’t really a sentence that’s useful in any sort of argument) so there’s a precedent. Sort of. Maybe.

But he doesn’t have to, because Miles is nodding and turning back to the papers, flipping another page.

‘You’d best do that,’ he says, flicking back and forth between two for a moment. ‘Knowing our luck he’d probably hurt himself on the way, left to his own devices.’

Kent's caught between horror at the idea of that happening and the shock of Miles just handing him what he's asked for. He hadn't even really got round to asking, just implying, and yet here they're standing, at either end of Chandler's neglected office, with Kent's shadow interrupting the column of light from the incident room that streams through the cracked-open door. Miles looks up at him after a moment's silence, his expression skeptical. Right, yeah--words. Those'd come in useful right about now.

‘It shouldn’t take more than an hour.’ Kent says, spitting out the first thing that comes into his mind that's not thanks. ‘Two, at most.’

Miles, as usual, is unperturbed. Kent can't decide whether that's reassuring or disconcerting.

‘When is it?’

‘Early afternoon, I think.’

He’s not going to admit that he knows it’s twenty past two and that they should probably get there for two and that he’s got rather strong feelings about making people fill in forms in waiting rooms and he doesn’t want to think about Chandler sat there on his own. Though Miles shoots him a look that actually makes Kent wonder if he’s said everything out loud because it’s so bloody all-knowing.

There’s a pause, then Miles turns back to the files. ‘We’ll think about it as a long lunch, then.’

Kent doesn’t quite understand the relief that flushes through him as he nods and ducks out of the room; there’s nothing wrong with putting his absence down as what it is, but Kent’s always felt better when there’s an excuse. Not that he needs one. It’s just more comfortable. Perhaps it’s because it’s getting harder and harder to lie to himself on such a regular basis.

‘Oh, and Kent?’

He stops, mid-step, and after a moment’s breath, turns. ‘Yeah, skip?’ 

Miles follows him out of the office—pulling the door neatly shut behind them both; Kent can’t tell if that’s symbolic—and leans across his own desk on his way to Kent’s side. His hand comes away clasped around a pile of manila and paper, each secured with a loose elastic.

‘Take these with you.’

‘What? Why?’ Kent takes the proffered files and tilts his head so he can read the labels. ‘These are… these are Ed’s.’

‘D’you think I’m about to give him current files?’ Miles scoffs. ‘More than my job’s worth, that, and he knows it. He’d never shut up about it.’

They don’t need to say that they’re talking about Chandler; they’re always talking about Chandler, one way or another.

‘Why are you giving him files at all?’

Miles shrugs. ‘Something to do. Got to keep him in shape, haven’t we?’

Kent murmurs ‘Yeah, I suppose,’ as he settles the files against his hip. He tries not to let his mind go down the rabbit hole that’s staring them both in the face.

‘Is there any background that goes with this?’

Kent doesn't know about Miles, but he's not willing to bet that Chandler would be in the mood to jump to when a pile of police files gets dumped in front of him without explanation. He'd probably like to think he would, but Kent's noticed more and more of a pattern lately, and it's that the later in the day it gets the less bothered about doing anything Chandler is. It's what's made Kent stay on for so long, for a number of nights that's probably excessive. He can't police what Chandler does during the day, how he pushes himself (because he does, he always does, for better or for worse), but it must be telling that by the time the shift's over and Kent twists his borrowed key into that lock, Chandler makes only token attempts to refuse to partake in his own mollycoddling.

Miles looks like all of his is painfully obvious and the few days it took Kent to put the information together were tragically slow.

‘Buchan’s been ferreting around in the cold case files again. God knows how—‘ Kent can’t help but smirk; Ed wields his police ID with as much dexterity as the rest of them. ‘—But he’s had a look round. Tell Chandler that he reckons those might point us another direction on the Wilkes case. He’ll know which one you mean.’

‘Another direction?’ 

(Kent’s not sure he likes the sound of that.)

‘It’s just something to think about. Nothing pressing.’ That seems like a warning. ‘If it does turn anything up then we’ll hand it to Davidson.’

Kent probably shouldn’t, but he shoots Miles a significant look. Chandler’s never fond of handing anything over, and particularly not to Davidson. He might not work under Organised Crime anymore, but the spectre remains, even if only in their own heads.

‘Yeah, I know. Needs must. It’s not perfect but it’s an idea, all right?’ Miles harrumphs. ‘The only good one Buchan’s had for years.’

‘I dunno about that, skip.’

‘Allow me some hyperbole after end of shift, eh, kid?’ Miles grumbles, reaching past Kent for his coat.

‘Just this once.’ A half-smile stretches at the corner of Kent’s mouth. ‘See you tomorrow. I’ll let you know how he gets on.’

*

As it turns out, Kent skips lunch all together. 

He survives the shift running on biscuits and he can’t help but wonder whether or not that’ll show as soon as he walks into a doctor’s office. It’s one in a series of irrational thoughts (that’s probably brought on by spending too much time next to that patch of mold waiting for Ed to cross-reference something for Miles that’s apparently hush-hush enough for him to have forgotten where he hid it) but he struggles through. Mansell’s mercifully out of the office when it’s time for Kent to grab his coat and keys, but Riley sees him out with a ‘Give him our love, yeah?’ and he squeaks out a horrified agreement before he can really wonder if she’d meant to discomfort him for a laugh. Except that’s more Mansell’s style, and Kent’s been known to overthink things, so he tries to focus on not getting run over instead of what everything means. 

Which, when he thinks about it, is generally good advice for life. Not that it’s in any way useful.

Chandler, on the other hand, is. It’s not the best word to describe him, but it fits: the last time Kent had offered to ferry someone to the doctor’s it has been Hannah and she’d completely forgotten she’d made an appointment despite giving Kent a week’s notice when she asked for a lift. Chandler hasn’t forgotten—he’d mentioned it a couple of days before, it’s what pushed Kent to do something about it. And as apprehensive as he might have been the evening before, wondering whether or not he’s overstepped some mark, Chandler had visibly relaxed when Kent had told him about the arrangements.

Either way, the slightly strained look around Chandler’s eyes had lessened; there seemed to be a weight lifted off his shoulders, too, but that might have just been Kent’s wishful thinking. He should leave it for the orthopaedist to decide whether or not that’s happened.

After what’s become their usual post-shift cup of tea, Kent had prefaced it with _Miles says…_ because if they’re both honest with themselves they know that while Chandler’s in charge on paper, they both tend to do what Miles says. The man’s got more power than he really should, but Kent supposes that he’s got a sort of seniority that not even Chandler can hope to surpass until one day he finds himself musing on the fact that they did things differently in his time. 

He’d offered his car keys alongside the explanation of, ‘Better suspension,’ to which Kent had nodded and accepted the keyring without another word, though he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact that he’d have to drive Chandler’s car. He’d been dropping off that evening, warm and calm in the dark, when he’d woken with a start as his too-relaxed brain pictured them lost somewhere far away from the clinic, wet from the rain and well out of reach of any sort of meaningful mobile signal.

But just about as enough time has passed for that image to have faded to a pale, hazy half-memory that doesn’t make his hands shake as he and Chandler walk through the building’s front door and towards Chandler’s car. Which is, thankfully, easy enough to decipher. Even so, Kent feels himself wittering on a bit as they pull into the surgery, filling him in on the minutiae of the morning that he’s sure Chandler’s just politely enduring. But it’s better than silence—or, well, talking about the appointment.

The problem with that plan, though, is how to end it; by the time he’s shifting the gear into park, Kent’s run out of things to say and the underlying unease that always comes with getting this close to a doctor’s office is surfacing. He doesn’t know why he keeps on insisting on bringing people, actually. Maybe he tries to kid himself that it doesn’t bother him until he can’t even deny it to himself. It doesn’t help that this is as far as he’d got in his planning. Kent’s not sure whether he’s staying or going, or whether he wants to be staying or going, or why they hadn’t already hashed the logistics out.

They’re both pretty good at logistics—and skirting the subject, apparently.

Kent swallows. ‘I’ll just…’

‘Kent.’ Chandler’s voice is carefully inquisitive. ‘Is there something about hospitals? I mean—‘ He pauses and spends a little too long choosing his next words. ‘That affects you.’

‘Why?’

Chandler indicates his knuckles on the steering wheel; Kent ~~l~~ ets go too quickly and finds they’re almost sore.

He folds his hands in his lap and looks intently at the gearstick. ‘Sorry.’

God knows why he's apologizing. It's a habit, one he's never broken; they'd tried to, when he'd first joined the team in CID and everything had begun and ended with laddish banter, but it's one of those ingrained things, more part of his DNA than it is a reaction to anything external.  

But Chandler doesn't chastise; instead, he lowers his voice to something careful and confidential, like they aren't the only ones in the car. That must be part of him, too, the gentleness that some try to learn but it never comes across quite in the same way.

‘Don’t you like hospitals?’

‘Does anyone?’ Kent answers too quickly for his own liking and forces himself to look at Chandler and slow down. ‘No, I don’t like hospitals. Don’t know why. I just… don’t.’

He ends on an unconvincing shrug. He knows it’s unconvincing because Chandler’s doing that face again, that strange half-crumpled one that emerges when nothing makes sense, and Kent almost bristles at being looked at like a case. Like something to be solved. (He doesn’t want to be solved; he’s not ready for quite that scale of truth.)

‘The striping didn’t help,’ he says, when Chandler looks like something painful’s dawning on him, ‘but it wasn’t that that started it, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

Kent’d like to know if he’s got any other ideas, actually, because he’s never quite been able to figure it out. His aunt had said it’s something innate in him, something to do with auras and empaths, but as much as he’s sometimes wanted to he’s never quite believed in her cosmic theories. Hannah reckons he just has sense, just adhering to some evolutionary advantage that means he’s got the sense to stay away from what are essentially quarantined areas. He’s always just been embarrassed about it, convinced that it’s something he should have grown out of; the first time he’d gone out with Chandler on the job, he’d been sure he’d seen his flinches, the way he rolled on his feet, ready to walk briskly towards whichever exit’s the nearest. A strange sensation of belated relief and immediate dismay comes with the realisation that he hadn’t really noticed.

Chandler’s gazing idly out the passenger side window when he murmurs, ‘I suppose I shouldn’t ask you to come in with me, then.’ 

‘What?’

Kent’s sure he’s missed that, misheard something and put the mangled parts together in a way that he’d like to hear them, but Chandler turns gingerly and tilts his head. Kent’s come to recognise that as his stand-in for a shrug while his shoulder’s out of action. In less stressful, discomforting situations, it’s endearing.

‘I was going to.’

‘You were?’

Kent’s frowning now, his hands unfurling against his thighs as he tries to process this information. Chandler doesn’t look like he understands it any more than Kent does, though out of the two of them he seems to be the one a little more capable of making his excuses.

‘Thought I might go mad in there,’ he says, trying for a smile, ‘sat reading the same pamphlet for twenty minutes.’

‘Turning the pages might take that long.’ 

Kent hadn’t meant to say that. Damn. Not the impression he wants to foster. Bloody nerves. He flexes his hands again, focusing on the way his knuckles give, and sneaks an apologetic look at Chandler. For some reason he’s half-smiling in that baffling way of his. Probably the painkillers. Kent hopes it’s the painkillers, otherwise there aren’t many other explanations.

‘There is that,’ Chandler says, with an inkling of a nod. 

Kent finds himself nodding back. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that a decision needs to be made and that his mind’s turned into cotton wool and there’s no bloody reason for it. Halfway through wondering whether or not it’s a good idea, or what it means, or why Chandler’s watching him like that, Kent gives in.

‘I’ll keep you company, though,’ he says, shrugging as if it’s of no consequence either way. (Maybe it is.) ‘If you want.’

Chandler’s face falters a little again, as if the slight look of relief had snuck up on him when he wasn’t looking. ‘If it bothers you—‘

‘No, it’s, um… fine. I don’t mind.’

Kent may mind, just a little—and Chandler may be able to tell, because he’s still looking at him a little too closely from the corner of his eye—but he’s not going to turn down the invitation, is he? He studies the dials on the dash for a moment longer, all settled on whatever their neutral value is now the engine’s off. It’s an odd invitation, really, when he thinks about it, but it’s not one he can’t understand. What doesn’t seem to fit is that the same man who can walk out in front of a gunman without a moment’s thought is sat here beside him, breathing softly in the quiet, not moving to get on with the appointment and just letting Kent sort out whatever’s left.

Then he notices the time on the backlit dial, tuts out of reflex more than anything else, and moves to unbuckle his seatbelt.

‘Better than sitting in here, anyway,’ he says, with a slip of a smile, as he opens the door. 

Chandler’s uncharacteristic, ‘What are you saying about my car?’ is interrupted by London’s roads, muffled by a layer of buildings, but the tinge of humour isn’t lost altogether.

Kent meets him on the passenger side and smiles, more pleased with the moment of teasing than apprehensive about what’s to come. ‘At least you’ve got more reason to say that than the skipper.’

Chandler huffs a weak laugh in response—the most he’s been able to do for the past couple of days without balancing ice on his shoulder—and Kent smiles up at him, just for a moment, before slipping his hands into his coat pockets and returning his gaze to the damp tarmac.

‘Are you sure?’ Chandler ventures after another moment and a few more silent steps.

His voice is so careful.

‘I mean it, it’s all right.’ Kent’s starting to think that’s all he’s capable of saying to Chandler. ‘I’m not… phobic, or anything. Just uneasy. Perfectly manageable.’

Chandler looks at him out of the corner of his eye. Kent doesn’t know whether to be insulted or touched at his concerned expression.

‘I’ve had enough practice. I was always the one Erica wanted with her when she got blood drawn.’

That's a long story--he probably shouldn't have mentioned it at all, actually, because it'll be awkward for the both of them if he goes into it but thankfully Chandler hasn't been able to do a double-take at speed for a while now, so at least they're both spared that embarrassment. Anyway, it's Erica's history to tell, not his. He's never been more aware of that distance in his life. 

‘Did she know?’ 

‘Yeah, course.’ Kent just about manages to stop himself from letting that incredulous laugh out; had there been anything they hadn't known about each other then, as teenagers? Probably, but it hadn't felt like it. ‘Said I made her laugh, though, so that was that.’

Probably because he was so ridiculous, but he’s suspected that a hundred and one times in his life and Erica’s never been one for a straight answer.

‘Whatever I was able to do, it was probably nerves.’ 

A bit like now, actually. He looks down to the tarmac, drags the sole of his shoe across some stray gravel. There's nowhere good to look--it's at Chandler or at the building, with all its innards, so Kent decides on trying to look at nothing at all. And he puts that funny feeling on the back of his neck down to the way he's buried his hands on his pockets, pulling the material tight across his shoulders. It's not someone's gaze on him; it's _not._  

'Look, you don't have to do this, Kent—‘

'Sir.’ Kent’s tempted to reach out and catch Chandler’s elbow, make him look at him properly when he says this. 'I said I would, didn't I?' 

Chandler can't refute that. He looks a little bit like he wants to, or like he knows he should, but he just looks at Kent for a long moment that does strange, odd things to the muscle lodged behind behind Kent's ribs, and nods. Kent removes a hand from a coat pocket top open the one of the double doors, and Chandler murmurs a gentle thanks as he walks through. Kent still hasn't figured how to respond to Chandler's thanks in a way that doesn't involve a sheepish look and perhaps, if he's unlucky, a bit more pink to his skin than usual.

'As long as you're sure.'

'Just how flighty do you think I am, sir?'

The answer is not at all—because he’s stayed at Chandler’s side since the Ripper, he could have transferred years ago and avoided so much shit but no, no, he hasn’t, because Miles is his governor and Chandler’s his _something_ and this is his place so he’s sticking with it, even as everyone else changes—but Chandler doesn’t seem to spot the jest Kent’s tried to put in his voice. Kent chuckles to himself anyway, just in case Chandler starts blaming himself for yet another thing that’s not his fault, and follows Chandler through to the appropriate waiting room. It disquiets him, a bit, that he can’t remember how they learnt to get here: was it last week, or was it earlier, when they were trying to make sense of someone’s death?

Kent’s pretty sure that it’s not actually that which bothers him—if it was, his inadvertent exposure therapy might have done something to alleviate the uneasy feeling pressed against his stomach.

It’s not panic. It never has been, although for some reason Kent’s always half-sure that it could go that way this time. It doesn’t actually matter than there’s no previous experience that he can cite as the trigger. The fact is that the feeling is vague and lapping at the edges of his mind, tugging at his sleeve, only serves to remind him of its irrationality. Perhaps if it was rational, he could talk himself out of it. But he’s never been very good about having rational fears.

He wants not to give a fuck, like those seagulls that sit atop the Thames even when it’s churning. But he’s never really managed to not care—no matter how many times he shouted the words as a teenager, no matter how many times he repeated it to himself as an adult—and he still ends up twisting his fingers together as he hangs back, letting Chandler handle whatever it is that needs to be handled at reception. 

He’s intensely aware of the fact that’s he’s not much use in here, that he’s got no reason to be taking up a chair like a piece of obnoxious luggage on a train. But when Chandler turns and searches him out, something in his face minutely relieved when he’s found, a little of the chronic awkwardness eases.

‘They’re running ten minutes late,’ he says on reapproach, sounding nowhere near as disappointed as Kent would be.

‘Oh?’

Chandler hums. It feels oddly domestic—trusting, like they’ve done this before and know all the silent tells—and Kent wants to seize his mind by its shoulders and shake that feeling out of it. Instead he presses his thumb to his opposite palm and thinks very hard about not letting any fidgeting fingers give away how uneasy he’s become. It’ll be fine—it’ll pass, it always does—but after a moment Kent does wonder why Chandler thought to tell him. Common courtesy, probably, but that doesn’t really explain why Chandler’s changed his tone to something that soft. Maybe it’s the waiting room effect; Kent always feels he has to keep his voice down regardless of whether or not anyone else is there. 

Nevertheless, he settles into the hard-backed chair next to Chandler and surveys the room. There’s nothing that should unsettle him, but there’s nothing that’s particularly reassuring, either. Not that he should be the one worrying. He’s not the one with a gap in his bones. He thinks about that for too long, letting one leg bounce a little more than he usually would in the station. He’s seen a lot worse than broken bones, so why does the thought of Chandler’s splintering clavicle send a chill down his spine? It makes no sense—Miles would probably just say he’s lost perspective, but they both know he lost perspective about Chandler a long time ago. Maybe that’s why he’s content to sit there for a few minutes, watching Chandler breathe out of the corner of his eye, matching the rhythm until his heartbeat calms. ~~~~

After what feels a lot longer than ten minutes, Chandler leans his head a little closer. ‘You came to see me, though.’

‘Yeah?’ Kent doesn’t really mean it to be a question, but if Chandler shifts any closer then he’ll feel how still he’s gone. ‘I didn’t have much of a chance to worry about hospitals, then.’ He clears his throat and reaches for the closest well-thumbed magazine. ‘Had other things to worry about.’

Kent’s inordinately glad that Chandler doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have much of a chance, either, because as soon as Kent’s flicked through to the table of contents Chandler’s called through.

He looks up only for a second, careful not to let their eyes meet. That's too close to a question, too near a silent, _Do you want me to come with you?_ He would, if Chandler asked, but he's not going to ask and after a moment's detached smile Kent turns back to the words printed across the coated paper, the image on the overleaf obscured by the splayed reflection of a lightbulb. The door clicks shut behind him with a soft whump, thanks so some sort of quiet closing mechanism that Kent's sure would go down very well at the station, and then he's on his own.

It's more disconcerting than expected. It's been a while since he'd last been in a doctor's office voluntarily, and he's been putting off going back like he always does. The longer he sits there the more he wonders if it's obvious, if one of the staff might pop their heads out and see immediately that he's three months overdue. Like there's a warning light that pops up. Where a dashboard would be on a human he doesn't know, but he's just pushing the metaphor too far because it's easier to think about that than it is to look at his watch and notice, not for the first time, how terribly slowly it's moving.

He’d text Riley and tell her to tell the skipper he won’t be long (convincing himself just as much as them), but despite the fact he’s sat opposite someone playing some kind of game on their phone that seems to involve quite a lot of silent swearing, he daren’t dig his own out of his pocket. He’s very aware that he’s sat directly beneath a sign impeaching them all to, please, switch off their mobiles.

* 

Kent doesn't quite understand the look of relief that passes over Chandler's face when he comes out, scanning the faces in the waiting room like barcodes, and sees him still sat there, another news magazine open on his lap. It's a month out of date and Kent's spent more time thinking about how wrong half of the speculation in its articles turned out to be than actually thinking about current events and the rest of the time he's been watching the door with one eye, looking up whenever anyone goes in or out. He’s turned into one of Pavlov’s dogs, half ready to jump to his feet every time the door clicks open, only to reveal a mother and her young son or an OAP, but now Chandler’s actually there he’s almost forgotten how to use his legs.

He gets up regardless, figuring that if he’s going to fall over anywhere, a doctor’s surgery’s probably the best place to do it.

‘All right, then?’ he asks, when Chandler’s close enough. 

The look he gets in response says it all, really. He aches in sympathy. 

‘As all right as I can be when I can’t expect any real healing for the next few weeks.’

Chandler’s voice is the one they use when they’ve just been handed inconclusive results: when fingerprints have no match on the database, when they’ve run out of time to hold a suspect, when he has to tell them all to go home because there’s no more that can be done tonight. Sometimes Kent gets the feeling then that he’d like to follow Chandler back into his office, or slip through the doors when the rest of them have packed up, and work the tension he carries along his spine out. Now he wants to let Chandler hide his eyes in the soft heat of his neck, wants to pet at the back of his hair as he falls asleep against his shoulder—but none of that matters, because even the fact that the logistics wouldn’t work with the break doesn’t matter, because they just don’t do that. They never have. Kent doesn’t know where this feeling of loss comes from. 

The man in question carries on, oblivious, as they make their way down a hall. ‘I have been told, and I quote, that “you’ll know when you’re feeling better.”’

Chandler doesn’t look like he’s feeling any better after hearing that.

‘I have also been warned,’ Chandler continues, looking even more dejected, ‘that the second week may feel worse than the first.’

Kent almost says that yeah, he knows, it’s all right really, but the pain of his second week was only half to do with his physical wounds. He spent just as much time licking the metaphorical ones, as well, until his phone had rung and ushered him back.

‘At least you know?’ he tries, holding the door open for them both.

He knows it’s not much of a comfort—it’s something people say because they want to be helpful, because they’d like to think that knowledge is power and that knowing actually changes anything—but the words come out of his mouth regardless. Chandler makes a small, muffled sound—the petulance Kent knows is there, now, kept in very tight rein—and doesn’t say anything else until they’re settled back into the car, waiting for the heating to come through warm.

‘Apparently I should be doing as little as possible.’

Chandler’s probably one of the few people in the world that can make that prospect sound like a challenge. 

‘You’ve managed so far.’

(Kent might say that, but he knows what it feels like to have that itching-out-of-your-own-skin feeling when faced with another empty day.)

‘It’s not exactly been me.’ Chandler says it to the dashboard, but flickers his gaze towards Kent for a moment, more careful than he’s been lately. ‘I can’t expect you to help—' 

‘Honestly, sir, I don’t mind.’ Kent knows that’s possibly the understatement of the year, but Chandler doesn’t know that, so it slips out without too much bashfulness. ‘And if I help—and the rest of the team, if you’d let them—then the quicker you’ll get back to work.’

Chandler sighs. ‘I’m starting to wonder if this’ll ever go.’

‘We all think that at one point or another, sir,’ Kent murmurs, absent-mindedly rubbing at the hinge of his jaw. He remembers the feeling well—he daresay the wall in his kitchen does, too, and he’s still not replaced that plate. Hannah hasn’t pushed him, either. They both know why.

‘It will, but it’ll hang around longer if you rebreak it trying to do something that we can do for you.’

Kent doesn’t need to go through all the possibilities in his head again, the myriad of scenarios he’s come across casually (he wishes, let’s be honest) reading through forums on a browser he hides behind official systems windows whenever anyone walks behind his chair; the one that said, _If you think it’s a bad break when you’ve got all that adrenaline in you, then you won’t like how it feels if you put weight on the arm too early. You’ll feel the bone slip. Do as I say, kids, not as I do_ particularly stuck in Kent’s mind. It would be Chandler who’d do that—not because he meant to, just because he keeps bloody well trying and he’s not quite figured out how to just sit down and shut up yet. Miles’ voice rattles around in Kent’s head— _You weren’t that much better, lad, the boss won’t be keen on you going hypocritical_ —but none of them seem to be very good about thinking of themselves.

‘That’s—‘ Chandler falters a little as he meets Kent’s eye again. ‘That’s all very kind.’

‘You say that like you’re about to tell me to get lost, sir.’

Chandler actually looks a little scandalised. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’ 

‘Very politely, I mean,’ Kent corrects, with a smile. ‘It’d make a change from being harassed by the skipper all the time.’

Chandler makes a small amused noise, one that betrays the fact that he still can’t bring himself to be quite as dismissive of his team as much they all are. Kent presses a canine to the inside of his lip to stop from smiling—it’s just another in a line of small, shared moments, they really shouldn’t make him want to grin as much as they do. He’ll just put it down from the fact he’s moving away from the hospital, now, and not towards it. If that’s not cause for a little disproportionate celebration then Kent doesn’t know what is.

But, he’s got to ask, hasn’t he? Better now than in Chandler’s flat; better now than on the phone from the station. God knows if he’d get the words out at all if he waits.

‘So,’ Kent begins, drumming the fingertips of one hand on the steering wheel. ‘Shall I stay on?’

His heart’s more in his throat than he’d admit; there’s always some bite with rejection, no matter what it’s attached to. He knows that already— _It’s not good enough_ —but Chandler’s watching him with an equally conflicted expression on his face, so perhaps they are in the same boat. Or similar ones, anyway. Kent wants to stay, and he can probably rely on the team backing up his reasons for doing so. The question lies in whether or not that quiver of uncertainty that’s playing on Chandler’s mouth is because he wants to refuse but not offend or he wants to agree but not impose.

It could go either way with him.

In the end, Chandler just says, ‘If you really don’t mind,’ as if that’s such a bewildering idea.

Kent still can’t really believe that he doesn’t realise they’d all offer him any and all help they can. Fine, maybe he’s offering a bit more than the rest of them would, but that’s just down to circumstance. He’s not got kids to help with homework. He does have Erica, but not in the same way that Mansell does. What he does have is the time and the inclination.

‘Yeah, course.’ Kent wears the most laid-back smile that he dares use with the boss; he looks like he needs convincing. ‘I wouldn’t offer otherwise.’

He can’t quite tell if Chandler looks relieved or not. ‘I have to say, Kent, that you shouldn’t feel obligated to do this if you don’t really—‘

‘Honestly, sir, we’ve been through this once already.’

Chandler stops talking very abruptly, watching for a moment too long as Kent gives a little half-shrug, a silent, _sorry, someone had to say it._ He doesn’t mean to be clipped, and he hopes he hasn’t been because really, he hadn’t meant to, but Chandler’s looking a little like he’s been reprimanded and it reminds Kent of that first day, when he’d grabbed at his jacket on the back of his chair and almost missed, when he’d looked back and seen Chandler’s face fall as they all followed Miles out. Even then, he’d wanted to stay. Even then.

‘Yes,’ Chandler says, eventually, after a pause that feels a lot longer than it probably is. ‘I, um—I suppose we have.' 

‘You should trust me, sir,’ Kent tries. ‘I’m a policeman.’

They smile at each other weakly; the joke doesn’t quite work anymore. They’ve met plenty of coppers they can’t trust. For a short while, Kent was one of them, and even now the memory’s one that makes his chest tighten as it had when Chandler had looked down at him with that look on his face. Kent’s still not sure exactly what it was.

In fact, he can’t tell what Chandler’s face is doing now, because he looks as if he’s about to swallow his own tongue, but instead he says, ‘I do.’

Kent nods. It’s the only thing he can think to do. If he dares open his mouth he’s scared he’ll ask Chandler to prove it; maybe he’s doing that already. He doesn’t trust himself to decide one way or the other.

Chandler clears his throat awkwardly. ‘You should get back to the station.’

‘Yeah,’ Kent agrees, wishing desperately that he could think of something else to say. ‘Probably.’

He’s torn as he puts the car into gear; he knows Chandler’s right, although even if he didn’t Miles would probably just handwave an explanation for why he hadn’t come back. Theoretically they’ve got everything on their side, but that doesn’t usually save them, does it? Evidently not, because Kent’s phone chooses that moment to beep insistently from his jacket pocket, reminding him that he’s not Chandler’s friend. Not just his friend, anyway.

It doesn’t take much for him to be able to guess what Chandler’s face is like, either, how it must fall prompted with the sound of the office badgering Kent back. He doesn’t want to look, because he knows that feeling, the one where you want to want to go back to work. Chandler would, of course, want to, but even he can’t deny it now. They’re coppers—it’ll hurt when it comes back, more so than if he sat at a desk inputting data into spreadsheets all day. He has to feel up to it. 

And, judging from the tension in his jaw that Kent clocks when he takes a left turn, Chandler’s just realised he can’t do anything about it except wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 09 March 2015.
> 
> Again: thank you all so, so much for all the support, I adore seeing your kudos and comments. We're halfway through this fic now, and I hope you enjoy the next for chapters just as much as the first! x


	5. Chapter 5

The second week is worse than the first.

Chandler doesn’t need to actually tell him for Kent to know. Kent doesn’t blame him—he never mentioned the minutae, either, it’s enough that other people know you’re in pain. There’s no point boring them with the ups and downs, and it’s not worth reminding yourself either. The body does that by itself.

But just because Kent understands it doesn’t mean that he agrees with it. He’s starting to understand why Hannah got so frustrated with him: he’d shift and swear and press his fingers to his closed eyes so hard his vision spotted when he opened them again then tell her he’s fine and not to worry about it. Yet at the same time he knows that really he had been fine, that there wasn’t much she could have done, and he’d just been telling the truncated truth. So he doesn’t push it. Telling someone—and reminding yourself—that there’s nothing more that can be done except wait can be more painful than the rest. So no matter how much he wants to press, he holds himself back, as he is wont to do. Somehow having years worth of practice doesn’t make it much easier. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t do what he can. He even ends up picking up the refill for Chandler’s prescription, and he spends the entire time waiting for it to be filled trying not to think about the fact that his name’s on some official paperwork with Chandler’s that’s not in the Met’s filing cabinets. All it is is approval for him to collect narcotics on Chandler’s behalf, assuming he can prove his own identity. But, still. It’s nice. It’s trust, concrete and there in sans serif, and he’s been yearning after that sort of proof of reversal of feeling for two years. Proximity.

That being said, he knows it’s nothing but convenience and keeps telling himself as much, but he can’t help but know what the assumption might be. They’ve had it once already, after all. He’s not sure if he craves it; he’s not sure if that’s terrible. Is it terrible if nobody knows apart from him? Maybe. A crime’s still a crime even if it goes unreported. But by the time he’s considering what the boundaries of his mind actually protect, he’s walking back out into the throngs of people on the street all trying to get home before the rain starts, and he’s not got much chance of thinking about much at all apart from getting to the station in one piece.

Perhaps it’s just Kent’s mind, or perhaps it’s because he doesn’t really want to be checking everything like some fretting mother hen who does more damage with her good-natured pecking, but it doesn’t seem as if Chandler gets through this lot of painkillers at quite the same speed as the last. He’s not counting, but he’s a detective and he’s paid to notice the little things, and maybe he’s slightly more attuned to the way Chandler tends to push himself, tends to keep going when he really should stop. Except he has been stopping. He’s even opened up, a little, as Kent tries to keep conversation going just to stop them both from going out of their minds.

‘It’s strange,’ he’d said one evening as Kent had flicked through his emails on his phone. ‘It’s almost as if I’m getting used to the pain.’

Kent had looked into the middle distance for a moment and huffed. Chandler always did have a talent for saying more than he actually means. ‘Yeah?’

‘I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt,’ he continues, and they share a familiar glance that betrays both their feelings about vacuous insights on the bleeding obvious. ‘It just doesn’t seem as ever-present as it did.’

‘Probably the tablets,’ Kent says, remembering a similar sensation of his own and, even now, he can’t unravel the relief from the anxiety. ‘They’re doing more than taking the edge off.’

Chandler hums and for a moment that’s where Kent thinks they’re going to leave it. He sort of hopes it is, because he remembers his prescription doing a little more than taking the edge off too. He hadn’t liked it. He still doesn’t like the memory, but there’s a shift of movement out of the corner of his eye and Chandler hisses a truncated curse.

Kent recognises the telltale signs, as he knows them now, and he moves to rise to his feet but somehow Chandler manages to catch his eye and shake his head, once, and despite all his instincts Kent settles back into sitting again. Chandler’s jaw is taut, set in the way it is when he’s had to decide something to do with a case, except now he looks a little more like a casualty than a captain. Something guilty mewls in Kent’s chest even as he thinks it, but he silences his conscience as Chandler rearranges himself in tiny increments, careful as usual but somehow more fragile.

‘It’s… it’s still frustrating,’ he bites out eventually, looking guilty. ‘Sorry if I’m—’

‘You’re not,’ Kent interrupts. ‘No one would blame you, even if you were.’

Least of all him. Kent’s got the virtue of experience, after all, and even if he hadn’t there are very few things that would make him want an apology from Chandler. He’s had worse from the man, anyway, adverse reactions that were nothing to do with an ill-timed question and a broken bone. What’s the theory, anyway—that people snap and argue with people they know they’re not going to lose?

‘It’s being tired that gets you in the end,’ he murmurs, a moment later.

It’s a confession, and Chandler makes a soft, sad face at him as if he can tell. Kent hadn’t asked for any more leave than he’d already been given, that year, because he hadn’t wanted to be away from the station unless he absolutely had to. But every now and then he wonders if they’d noticed that he hadn’t been completely operational. He’d been fine at work, clearly, otherwise he’d have been sent home; it was there where he wasn’t working. Riley had noticed, when she’d joined the team. They hadn’t been close before but they knew each other from around the nick, and she’d gathered him into a hug upon arrival with a smile, but murmured, ‘You look underslept,’ in that voice of hers that also says she’ll be talking to you about that later, when she gets a chance.

He managed to give her the slip, though. He’d become rather good at doing that then. He’s still not quite lost the habit.

‘I said some horrible things,’ Kent says, with a forced grin that doesn’t sit right on his face, ‘so I don’t think you could come out with much that offends me.’

Even as he says it, he wishes the assertion was more true than it is. Kent’s not lying—he knows, he really does, that anything Chandler might snap or snarl has more to do with bone and muscle than anything he’s done, but there’s a small, tender bit of him that would feel each word keenly, like the sting of a switch. Chandler looks at him like he knows, like even though he’d kept his gaze down that day he’d seen Kent’s face fall at his clipped words, like he can’t quite shake the memory of Kent lunging at Mansell over a smutty laugh and a handful of words. Kent distracts them both by reaching for his cup of tea. It’s cold and clammy, but he sips at it anyway.

‘To be honest,’ he says eventually, unable to bear the knowledge that Chandler’s trying to put the pieces together. ‘I’m impressed you’ve not been more vitriolic.’ He’s impressed by most things Chandler manages, but there’s no need to tell him that. ‘I certainly was at this point.’

It takes him a moment to realise that, this far into his own injury, he’d calmly asked for a few days leave and barely given an adequate reason. In fact he can’t remember giving a reason at all; had Chandler even asked? Kent can’t be sure. He wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t, though if that was because he doesn’t like prying or because he knew the reason already is unclear. Kent had used those days to distill his venom and self-contempt, to extract it and bottle it up to leave on a shelf before walking back into the incident room the next Monday morning, smiling the best he could despite the tremors in his leg. It’s not really the same as this. No one sat with him, exchanging brief but frequent bouts of soft words. He wouldn’t have let them.

God knows why Chandler is letting him.

Kent looks up, troubled by the thought, and finds that Chandler’s already regarding him with an expression that Kent knows too well. He’s halfway to a conclusion and the only thing keeping him from arriving is the lack of a confession.

‘Kent—’

‘If you’re going to mention what I think you’re going to mention, sir,’ Kent says, and as soon as the words fall from his mouth he realises how long it’s been since he’s used the honorific. ‘Then, please, don’t. It’s irrelevant, now.’

He knows he’s being obvious: his shoulders have gone tense despite the fact he’s still sat back like nothing’s happened, he’s digging his teeth into the inside of his bottom lip waiting for Chandler to either let it go or keep pressing, keep asking. The problem is that Kent knows he’ll tell, if Chandler asks, if he wants him to, despite what it’ll do to him to say it. Not that he knows—he doesn’t talk about it, hasn’t in ages—but he is sure that now’s not the time. 

Chandler looks at him as if he wants to double-check that they are thinking the same thing, just in case. They are, Kent can tell, and he’s cursing himself for all the oblique references he’s been making but it’s been the only thing he can think to do—the closest they’ve come to each other is their injuries, isn’t it? It’s the best attempt he can make at being practical, at offering some semblance of comfort without offering his hand (like he wants to). It’s easier to trot out anecdata than it is to bare his scars, though Kent’s not sure which is which anymore.

The lowest line of half-forgotten scarring twinges, a threatening sense-memory; he wraps the fingers of one hand around the same site his palm used to return to over and over again, except this time he can’t tell if it’s his muscle or his nerves or his mind that’s betraying him. With his free hand, he goes back to thumbing from one page to another on his phone, eventually settling on typing something inane he won’t actually send to Hannah.

Chandler sighs, acquiescing. ‘All right.’

He doesn’t apologise for almost asking.

*

The most telling sign of all is the fact that Chandler’s given in and actually started to ask him to do things rather than just waiting for him to offer.

It’s funny, really, the dichotomy; Chandler has no trouble telling him what to do (and what not to do) when they’re on duty. It isn’t as if Kent hasn’t had orders thrown in his direction for the past four years. It’s quite quaint, really, to see Chandler wrestle with whether or not he should say something. Maybe it’s to do with time and place—Chandler likes things to stay in their places, as they know, and Kent can’t blame him with lives like theirs—but Kent can’t help but wonder, once or twice, if they aren’t Chandler and Kent here but something else, perhaps even creatures with first names. Maybe. He never pushes for answers. Now’s not the time.

(That’s what he keeps telling himself. It’s what he’s always told himself.)

Yet, Kent never quite knows with Chandler. He’s not sure any of them do. The man’s got a face that betrays his secrets, not hides them, and yet there’s always a feeling that you’re missing the crux of it all. Miles has more of the clues, so he can put a few more of the puzzle pieces together, but even he’s working on instinct most of the time. Kent’s given up relying on his after the last few outbursts; it drags him somewhere he doesn’t want to go. Maybe this is what they all mean by muddling through. You never really know anybody and you never really know yourself, either.

You just make do.

He doesn’t have time to ponder it—or, he does, but he doesn’t want to allocate an hour to self-flagellance if he doesn’t absolutely have to—so he just adds it to the teetering pile of things he’s ignoring for the time being. It takes him a while to get used to it, and he’s still not entirely sure he can say he has, but he’s almost come to call it familiar. In the same way that going to a crime scene at three in the morning becomes familiar. Except—oh, well, he’s not come up with the right comparison yet. That requires far much more self-contemplation than he’s willing to spare.

There’s enough on his mind. Miles has them double-checking every detail in their files at the station, convinced that his suspicion that there’ll be an audit soon is a premonition, and with Chandler he’s negotiating a careful choreography of allotted touches, always opening with _D’you mind if_ , always waiting for the nod or the quiet word—but that’s not unusual. The location’s different but the routine’s the same. More or less. There are… details which make Kent pause. He wants to say sod it and carry on without the niggling feeling in the back of his head, but the devil’s in the details, and he’s been taught how to read into them.

There’s normally space between them—doorways, thresholds. It still feels safer that way, occupying different spaces, but although there’s an undercurrent of danger that comes with sitting like this with Chandler—when it’s dark outside and he’s lit with the warm glow of the nearby light, when he has to lean close to Kent’s bent knee to reach the coaster on the coffee table—Kent’s not sure if it’s something he fears. He should fear it, it’s got so much power over him that he shouldn’t even trust himself, but he can’t refuse that thrum of anticipation, the seduction of possibility. It doesn’t matter how infinitesimal it is; the feeling’s still there, hiding and giggling behind his breastbone. He does his best to ignore it, but there’s no paperwork to get stuck into here, no case reports to write, and there’s only so long you can ignore the tapping at the back of your brain.

He never gives in for long. Occasionally he entertains the thought of perhaps laying a hand on Chandler’s good arm, or letting their fingers accidentally-but-not-actually brush for a long moment that neither of them can deny, but only for the space of a breath. Then he does what he’s been asked, ignores how he feels he should be trembling in the face of Chandler’s soft smile of thanks, and keeps his thoughts very much to himself.

It’s not comforting to know that it’s fear that keeps him from acting, anxiety about what might happen rather than propriety. He’d like to think he was better than that, or that he had a moral compass that pointed steadfastly north, but his life’s never been as kind as that.

One evening, when they’ve settled exhausted that day’s news (Riley discovering Miles’ secret stash of biscuits, Chandler fielding repeat nuisance calls), Chandler takes the opportunity offered by a companionable pause to ask, ‘Did you take those files of Ed’s back to the station?’

‘No?’ Kent’s not sure why it comes out as a question. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Do you think it’s still worth having a look at them?’

Kent resists the urge to crook a knowing smile; Chandler’s got quite creative with his almost-requests. He’s not quite asking but Kent knows he is and neither of them have to cringe about some overextension of station dynamics. They’re occupying some in-between space with professionalism on one side and friendship on the other, and although Kent feels himself veering towards one edge he still nods, murmurs something ending in sir, and goes to fetch files like he usually does.

It’s still not quite the same, though. The station’s hallways are damp and murky while the few rooms of Chandler’s flat are illuminated with warm light, and instead of the silent cacophony of Ed’s maze of bookshelves and boxes Kent’s faced with Chandler’s own office. As usual he tries not to look—an instinct, possibly primordially English—but there’s really no point. He’s there to _look for_ something, and he was the one who put it there, so there’s no escaping it. 

Kent’s known Chandler long enough now to be able to predict his organizational habits, but he still moves around the room so carefully it might as well be a crime scene. But it’s not and Kent finds the file exactly where he’d left it: on a spare patch of desk, next to a small pile of neatly-opened post, near a photograph that he may have looked at for just long enough out of the corner of his eye to identify a much-younger Chandler who still manages to look concerned.

He doesn’t stick around to get a closer look—he’s seen that expression in Chandler’s eyes before, he doesn’t need its history to make it mean anything. He returns to the Chandler he knows (more than he thought, anyway, and he tries not to relish the fact Chandler always seems to look up when he enters the room with the shadow of a smile on his face) and brandishes the file like it’s some sort of prize.

It’s not. It’s a tattered old thing, really, not up to Chandler’s standards, but there’s nothing that can be done about that. Ed’s meticulously haphazard, or haphazardly meticulous, while Chandler’s just meticulous. He eyes the file, following the line of newspaper column that longs enough to sprout from the bottom of the manila. Then something gives and Kent has to gather the thing against his chest, pushing the pages back in against his ribs. 

‘I could give you the highlights.’

Chandler swaps looking at the file for looking at him, and after a moment’s consideration says, ‘All right.’

Kent smiles— _no, I don’t mind, thanks for not asking this time_ —and the pleasure he gets from Chandler returning the gesture makes him comfortable enough to settle on the floor, laying out the file flat on the coffee table before him. He’s not sat at Chandler’s elbow like he had before, that first time, but at least now he doesn’t have to sneak glances at Chandler. He hadn’t known he’d been doing it then, but he had, and the same urge takes him now.

He’s not used to someone looking back.

The text sort of swims before his eyes for a second as he snaps back to looking at it. His vision sharpens but the prickle of embarrassment lingers, so he fumbles about with a page of Ed’s notes and tries not to imagine that Chandler can tell how stupidly flustered he’s become.

‘Shall I…’ Kent begins, self-conscious and suddenly aware of stupid things like how his tongue manages to form words. ‘Shall we begin with Ed’s thoughts or the contemporary police report?’

‘If there is one.’

‘You’re in luck, there’s both.’

Chandler makes a small, pleased sound that’s definitely become more common of late. God knows why, Kent had been absolutely miserable at this stage (- _ish_ , it isn’t directly equivalent, he knows), but Kent’ll take it. It’s nice, hearing Chandler like that.

‘Better start with Ed, then. You all go on about the length of his tales—‘

‘Height, more like.’

Chandler fixes him with a warning look that’s got more begrudging agreement in it that cautionary advice.

‘—He’s good for context.’

Kent can’t argue with that. ‘If you say so.’ 

When they’d spent the majority of their time together in the station, in the incident room, there would have been a comfortable _sir_ on the end of that sentence. _Boss_ , even, if he’d been feeling daring. The word—name, whatever it is—almost makes its way out now, just out of sheer habit, but Kent holds his tongue as he reaches for Ed’s page of handwritten notes and skims them the best he can. He distracts himself with remembering what all the abbreviations mean, but he can’t help but notice. For a moment there, just one, to call Chandler _sir_ would have shattered something.

He’s the boss now, or as close as he has been for a week so so, but when Kent had caught his eye he couldn’t have called him _sir_ if he tried. 

*

Nearer the end of the week, something shifts. Not all the way—that would be a miracle—but in the same way that tectonic plates move centimetres in a year, something shifts.

Kent’s tempted to think that it’s something slotting into place, something that’s been veering on the edge of correctness for a while, but even if he thinks it he daren’t voice it to anyone. Chandler’s shoulder’s a little better (it’s swapped the almost constant agony from week one for handing over one or two hostaged good days then unleashing a surprise bad one—and, despite all their experience with disappointment, they hold their breath and hope each time), though Kent still stays. He’s not sure why, or how, though he’d had an excuse prepared just in case ( _the less you do now, the sooner you’ll be back, sir_ ), but it’s one of those things that’s just happened.

Thankfully, when they work an open-and-shut, bog-standard, _don’t-worry-the-boss-would-hate-it_ mugging gone wrong, no one gives Kent flak for texting Chandler the first chance he gets. Mansell might make pointed comments about appeasing the missus, but Kent can’t tell if he’s trying to needle him about Chandler or Erica and Miles keeps calling him over to look at something he’s noticed, so he doesn’t do anything about it. Not that he’d have a chance, because the combination of a bit of a clumsy criminal and the vigour of work that comes after a dry spell means that they clear up that file without the need for overtime. 

(And as much as he’s not supposed to discuss cases with anyone not currently on active duty, he does, and Chandler comes as close as he ever has to encouraging it.)

A couple of days later, Kent lets Chandler make tea. He probably shouldn’t, but Chandler had insisted for once and, if he’s really being honest with himself, then the one firm conclusion Kent’s found in all his (admittedly contradictory) research is that collarbone breaks all heal and feel differently. He considers hovering, just in case, but Chandler shoots him a look that seems to know what Kent’s trying to do and say that he’s perfectly willing to risk a couple of mugs and, for a split second, Kent can see something of his _I’m-going-to-prove-a-point_ face.

Which, strangely enough, is reassuring. It shouldn’t be, because the first time that came out it’d been during the Ripper case and it’s made sporadic appearances since, but Kent relents anyway, returning to his usual seat and settling, getting stuck into the book Erica had sent him via Mansell. He’d handed it over in the office as if it was some sort of underhand agreement wrapped in brown paper.

She’s scrawled on the title page— _Dark and moody, just like you x—_ and he’d been taken by surprise the first time he’d flicked through the pages because Mansell’s hand’s there as well, with pencilled-in capitals on the back endpaper. _Read it from the beginning, you muppet_ , it says, and even though Kent reads it in Mansell’s voice he still finds himself smirking and flicking back to the first chapter without reading the last sentence like he usually does. It’s the first time his knee-jerk reaction to their involvement isn’t to try and preempt the break; he settles with the words (theirs and the author’s) and lets that sink in.

Maybe it’s because he’s warm, or because he’s spent too much time in this flat, or maybe it’s because Erica’s always been able to spot things he likes, but Kent loses grip on the reality of the situation just enough for him to end up with his back slumped against one arm and his legs slung over the other, in that way that Hannah always says she should complain about but can’t because it makes him look about sixteen. It’s been a habit since about then, actually, but that’s probably not a very wide leap for anyone to make. 

‘That’s not how you sit in a chair,’ Chandler says as he returns, standing stiffly as if to hold his shoulder in place.

Kent doesn’t look up—he smiles instead. ‘It’s how I sit in a chair.’ 

‘Kent.’

He unhooks his legs from the arm, heart suddenly still with the thought that he’s just crossed the line. He keeps veering towards it, after all.

‘Sorry,’ he says, his heart kicking at his ribcage.

‘No, sorry, that’s not what I—’

But Chandler’s standing there with an odd expression on his face, a mug of tea in his good hand. Kent resettles, sitting how you’re supposed to and keeping place in his book with his index finger, waiting for the words that Chandler’s mulling over in his head to come out of his mouth. It’s not a guarantee—never is and never has been, with them—but there’s something in the gossamer quality of the silence that suggests it won’t last long.

Then again, it’s Chandler. They could be sat here for a long time if he decides against saying whatever’s brought him back to Kent’s shoulder. He doesn’t stay there, though—he breaks out of his self-conscious reverie for a moment to sit himself down on the same end of the sofa he usually does, placing himself diagonally opposite. Kent waits, and just as he’s wondering whether or not he should dog-ear the page, Chandler looks up from the carpet and opens his mouth to speak. 

‘How did…’ He trails off, looking frustrated with the false start, and shuts his eyes to start again. ‘How did you manage? With the damage to your sciatic nerve?’

Kent blinks. He hasn’t thought about that for a while. ‘Oh, um…’

‘You don’t have to answer,’ Chandler says, quickly, looking away with opened and embarrassed eyes and shaking his head slightly in self-rebuke. ‘I know it’s personal.’

Kent thinks back to his last reaction to a similar question, his reticence, and forces himself to say, ‘No, it’s fine.’

He’s thought about it a lot more since, in the quiet moments. There’s been a lot of those in the station, recently, and occasionally Kent finds himself reading something with so little attention that his mind wanders swiftly to his scars and the questions they pose. He’s answered all of his own; he made a point of doing that then, when everything was fresh, when it could still be put to bed the way he wanted it to. Something about asking more now strikes of necromancy, of recalling the forgotten, but isn’t that just as much of a fantasy as everything else? It’s part of him, now, the experience. It’s part of them, too, in a way: Chandler, who sent him on inquiries; Miles, who took the call from the hospital.

It's not like their jobs aren't there to probe into people's lives; they aren't exempt, either. He probably knows just a little too much about all of them, except Chandler, about who he knows precisely fuck all. Well, that's not entirely true, because he's got a bucketload of suspicions and  inklings so at least a few of them must be right. And they all know about him, his half-secrets, things he's never hidden but never spoken of either. It took Miles all of five minutes to suss them all out; Kent's got no doubt that Chandler's got the same power. He's just a lot more subtle about it.

And he was there on that day, after all.

‘Well, I suppose it was a good thing they knocked me out as soon as they could,’ Kent says, smiling a little like that’s supposed to be a joke; he knows it won’t hit. ‘I wasn’t managing particularly well when you and Miles saw me.’

He would have thought that was obvious; how anyone can keep their head when their own blood’s on their hands, he doesn’t know. He stares at the backs of them now, trying to find the words as if they’re buried between his fingers, watching as Chandler’s shadow shifts over the crests of tendon and bone.

‘They’ve told me it’ll probably get worse, as I get older,’ he admits with a dry half-laugh. ‘Middle age’ll have some nasty surprises for me, I bet.’

He’s spent more time than he’d like thinking about that: what’s to come. Miles has already had one or two words with him about looking into putting in for his sergeant’s exam, and he’s been dropping more and more hints lately that he’s ready for slippers and a pipe. Kent keeps telling himself that Miles is just always in the mood for complaining, or that of course he’d feel like this with a toddler in the house and it’ll be different when she’s in school, but police retirement age must be looming on the horizon somewhere. And it’s when that thought settles upon him alongside everything else that his face assumes an expression similar to that of Chandler’s now. 

Kent almost scolds himself then and there, because he’s just realised: if Chandler’s asking now, even after before, even when as far as he knew he’d been likely to have been refused again, then he’s asking because he doesn’t think he’s got any other choice. And how long must he have spent looking for another? It’s been a few days, and they both know Chandler doesn’t just set thoughts aside on a whim, no matter how much he’s like to. He should have noticed; maybe he did. It wouldn’t be the first time Kent’s ignored something because it’s a little easier for him that way.

Still, sitting there now, opposite Chandler as he processes the way Kent’s woven his fingers together until his knuckles blanch, Kent has to question whether it’s been worth it.

‘I can’t—’ 

Chandler cuts himself off, wrinkles his nose; Kent can’t tell whether his pained expression is due to what he’s trying to say or his shoulder. It could go either way. Kent can’t do much about it either way, and it makes him want to rearrange the order of the world so he can. The problem is that it isn’t the fabric of the universe that’s stopping him—that’d probably be easier. It’s Chandler, and it’s when they’re close like this that he feels furthest away.

‘Sometimes,’ Chandler says, starting again, ‘I think something, and even though I know it’s already been settled, I can’t let it go.’

It all comes out interspersed with careful breaths, as if the words catch on his tongue and teeth as they come out.

‘Yeah?’

‘Brachial plexus injuries, they’re… I know it could be much worse, I _know_ , but…’

‘It’s all right. It’s normal.’ Kent cuts in before Chandler can really get going, and he gets a look in return that's not far from gratitude. ‘The nurse told me they were watching you for neurapraxia, when I came to see you. That’s class one, isn’t it?’

Chandler nods. ‘The mildest. A good chance for spontaneous ninety to a hundred percent recovery.’

He sounds like he’s quoting a pamphlet, or something one of the doctors said, but there’s enough doubt in his voice to show through. He might be saying words but he’s not behind them, not entirely; there’s something disembodied, and that sounds so wrong in Chandler’s voice that Kent sits forward, setting the book to one side, ignoring the fact he’s just lost the page, and takes a steadying breath for the both of them because he knows that feeling. He’d had it until the anesthetist had a cannula in his hand, then again later, again and again.

‘But it’s that ten percent, isn’t it?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ Chandler says, on a sigh, and if it’s not quite relief that colours his voice then it’s a close relative.

Kent only just stops himself from reaching out and brushing the back of Chandler’s good hand where he’s rested the arm against his knee; the posture’s not great, and it probably goes against all advice for keeping the collarbone in alignment. Chandler’s face breaks, for a moment, and he sits straighter with a small hiss of discomfort; that’s that, then. God knows Kentaches where he’s been battered over the years, when it’s a cold day or he’s overwrought, but he can remember the sharp stab that comes from every uncomfortable reminder of a fresh wound and he wishes with all his being that he could do more, that more could have been done.

‘That’s…’ Kent starts, running a hand through his own hair as he speaks, just to do something with his fingers. ‘That’s more than understandable, sir.’

Chandler looks at him, the lamp throwing warm light across his face, his eyes careful. Kent knows he can stand up for himself, the man does it enough at the station, with coppers and robbers alike, but he understands the vein of irrationality that makes you wonder if your friends are going to turn on you, familiar faces snapping _Be grateful it’s not worse_ or _Don’t be an idiot._ There’s a sadness bent across his shoulder as well as the break, resigned, and although Kent knows he can’t lift it off completely he knows he can try.

‘Can you move your fingers?’

The sudden question’s greeted by the slight furrow that appears between Chandler’s brows; Kent simply nods, urging demonstration. Chandler watches him for a moment longer, the skepticism that’s always in him rising to the surface, but he does as he’s asked.

‘Wrist?’ Kent prompts again, with another nod.

He gets another look for his troubles—Mile is rubbing off on Chandler, no matter what he says to the contrary—and Kent realises that he’s probably just inadvertently revealed what he’d spent those first few days googling on the off-chance.

‘No pain?’

‘No more than I’m always in.’

‘Sir,’ he says, and it’s a stern warning with warmth around the edges, the way his mother had spoken to him when he wouldn’t sit still and she was trying to take his temperature with a hand on his forehead.

Chandler relents. ‘No.’

Kent makes a noise that’s probably more at home in Miles’ chest, something equal parts concerned and amused, and shuffles a little further forward in his seat like a pigeon edging towards a bit of crust that’s just a little too close to someone’s foot for comfort.

‘D’you mind?’ he asks, extending a hand.

Chandler shakes his head again, and Kent shifts a tiny bit further out so that they’re leaning closer together. The book slips behind his back and there’s a good chance that the cushions are pushing the cover back in an awkward bend, but it doesn’t matter because Kent runs the flat of his bent knuckles across the back of Chandler’s hand, then again over his fingers.

‘You feel that?’ he asks, and the hush in his voice is only half because yeah, he does feel that.

Everything precipitates into a clutch of thoughts; supposedly inviolate but somehow they feel like a weak point, a pressure point, things that one particularly penetrating look would bring pouring out into the space left between them. Kent’s more fascinated than he should be with the camber of Chandler’s hand, right where his thumb curves into his palm, with the fine bones of his wrist protecting the faint thump of pulse. Kent wants to slide his fingers there, press his skin and bones into the faded lines of Chandler’s veins, and listen; wants to slide his fingers between Chandler’s, revel in the size of his hand. Don’t think he hasn’t looked—fantasized—already.

But it’s all too close, and he’s doing this for a _reason_ , damn it, so he leans in a little heavier and busies himself with looking at nothing in particular. Except that doesn't work, because his gaze is always drawn to Chandler when he's near enough to see, and he can't help but notice the purple of the livid bruise fading to something sickly and yellow mottled across Chandler’s shoulder, dipping as far as his suprasternal notch.

Something in Kent's chest twinges in misplaced sympathy but Chandler’s nodding, his mouth moving to say yes, and and Kent can't keep looking, he can't maintain this half-horror, half-awe, and he looks up to meet Chandler's eye with a slack mouth that's quickly corrected to a pleased smile when he's processed what Chandler's told him. 

'Yeah?' he says. 'That's all right, then.' 

Kent won't swear that he hasn't imagined it, but in that moment Chandler actually looks a little soothed, a little calmer; Kent's even less sure that he should be in a position to offer solace or reassurance to anyone, but Chandler's there and he's there and it's dark outside and light in here and suddenly there doesn't seem to be much of a world outside the corner where they're sat. The low lull of the fridge's hum is suddenly loud in that way that can only be heard when there's a long stretch of silence and you're waiting, straining, to hear something else.

Kent offers his own hand.

‘Go on, grip my fingers. Gently.’

He’s surprised that comes out as sure as it does; it shouldn’t, because offering his hand to Chandler is something that should make him shake (let alone his voice) but neither happens. And he doesn’t have to wait, or coax; Chandler just checks his face, once—checks that he means it—and reaches.

Kent tries not to let his breath hitch as Chandler hooks his fingers against Kent’s, but it probably happens anyway, just a bit; his pulse jumps in his throat and wrists as they sit there, not looking at one another. They’ll have to do it eventually but Kent doesn’t hasten the moment closer; instead he focuses his gaze on the tension of Chandler’s fingers, keeping his mind set on the way they’re pressing in counterpoint.

To be honest he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing. He’s acting on what’s more or less a hunch, just a theory that he’s cobbled together half from his own experience and half from reading a dozen (mostly contradictory) anecdotal tales about cycling accidents. He is by no means an authority on anything, let alone this, but he’s the only one there who has any chance of making that despondency hiding just under Chandler’s whisper-thin calm veneer ease a little.

‘Harder,’ he says, and it almost comes out too quietly, so he clears his throat before continuing. ‘Try to hurt me.’

He somehow feels Chandler’s eyes flick upwards to him then, with those words; their weight drags Kent’s up, too, until they’re looking at one another. Kent nods, another gesture of encouragement, and Chandler’s mouth narrows—he knows what that’s about. Or, at least, he can guess. Chandler doesn’t have to try to hurt him. Sometimes, he just does. Except this time, he needs to mean to do it. If Kent was a more matter-of-fact man, he might smile that crooked smile that Mansell always wears and say _That’d be a change, wouldn’t it?_ , but he’s not. No matter how many times he’s thought it’d be easier if he was.

‘Come on, sir,’ he says instead, dropping his gaze. ‘I’m trying to make a point here.’

Chandler huffs out an almost-not-laugh, one of those familiar things he does, and Kent’s suddenly aware that he hadn’t noticed they’ve been sat there hand-in-hand, exquisitely stung by the thought that the warmth of Chandler’s fingers against his own is so quickly familiar, so easily comfortable. His first instinct would be to snatch the touch away, roll an apology off his tongue and settle back into his chair, fingers safe holding his place between pages, but he doesn’t. And he can’t, because Chandler does as he’s told and strengthens his grip and even if Kent had wanted to say something, he couldn’t have worked out how to use his mouth.

Chandler lets go after a long moment, seemingly relieved; Kent catches a degree of surprise in his face, a suggestion of a budding smile.

He folds his hands back in his lap.

‘Now, I’m no doctor,’ Kent says, with a half-nod towards Chandler’s shoulder, ‘but that seems all right.’ 

He might not be a doctor, but he's read through the compulsory emergency care manuals once or twice, and he's gone on the courses that the Met recommends. Chandler probably has as well, and he probably knows that there's not much in it about this. It's all first aid—more or less, anyway—so he must have guessed that everything Kent knows about this he knows because he'd been frightened and mad enough to learn everything he could about nerve injury as soon as he'd got his hands back on his laptop. He’d scared himself shitless doing it—the Internet really is a cesspool, of course he knew that, but he hadn’t felt it until one in the morning when he’d been fooled into thinking he wouldn’t work again—but apparently it hadn’t been in vain.

Chandler clears his throat, awkward, as if he feels he’s taken something without deserving it. ‘I’ve never been very good about convincing myself it's all going to be all right.’

Kent wants, desperately, to be the sort of person who could just burst out and say that yeah, don’t worry, it’ll be all right, it’s always all right in the end. But he can’t, because it’s not. It’s never all right, technically, but he’d spent far too many nights as a teenager trying to sleep and being kept awake by that thought and he’s not going to go down that rabbit hole again. He dips into another instead, wishing that he could cradle Chandler’s head against him and remind them both of what warmth can do, but acts on none of his instincts. He just tries a gentle look and, as usual, he’s not sure if it’s actually as gentle as he’d intended. 

‘If you ever want, you know, reassuring about this—‘ He gestures between them, the phantom pressure of Chandler’s fingers against his own still prickling along the inside of his knuckles. ‘—just let me know, okay?’ 

Kent had known before he’d even opened his mouth that it’d be awkward—somehow more awkward than actually touching—but he offers anyway, because he knows that memory can feel like an affliction and Chandler’s is a double agent, working for itself. He needs an impartial observer. Not that Kent’s impartial (in the strictest sense of the word), but he knows that even though they’re permanently anchored to their own horrors there’s a comfort in someone else telling you that something so monumental can finally lose its teeth. Not the scars, just the bite.

Chandler looks like he’d fidget, if he still could. ‘I shouldn’t ask—‘

‘It’s all right, sir. You don’t have to ask.’ He doesn't _want_ to make him ask. ‘I didn’t have to ask for you to take me to those crossroads.’

Kent feels himself flush, although perhaps he's not the one who ought to be. Chandler had just known, that night. Maybe he'd been just as obvious as usual, maybe he's worn more than his heart on his sleeve and his fears are as much a part of his oh-so-knowable self that it hadn't taken much to for Chandler to put two and two together, to make the link between ghosts and djinns and the look on his face. But even if that's all true, Kent can see Chandler's face and fears, too, so maybe it's not so abominable.

'Thank you, for that, by the way,' Kent murmurs, thinking back to how Chandler had lain his palm against the tarmac then thought better of it, shooting his fingers disgruntled expressions in the car on the way back to the station. 'I didn't say it, at the time.'

'It was,' Chandler pauses, rubs at his knee with his good hand. 'It was nothing. I needed my team to be--'

'And we need our governor,' Kent interrupts, tempted to press his fingers to the back of Chandler's hand again, the touch as soft as ashes, but doesn't. 'You're just as important as the rest of us.'

It’s a truth that shouldn’t need to be said, but Chandler looks as if he’s just swallowed a sparrow and Kent realises that it might actually be a revelation. It’s been four years, he should know that by now, he should _know_ but… Miles had said. Once, in the pub, on one of the myriad of times he hadn’t come. _The daft sod still isn’t sure if we’re keen on him,_ he’d said, when Kent had wondered aloud. _The idiotic part of him thinks we’re just putting up with him to be polite._

Their monsters are too slippery to get around the throat, so they’ve got to abandon the offensive and go for defence instead. They’ll be all right—there are contingencies of biology for this, ways to heal he hasn’t even thought of yet—but they might never feel it. That’s something Kent learnt to live with two years ago, or perhaps he just accepted the fact and filed it away for later, postponing what panic he can. It's probably not healthy, it's probably not the right thing to do and it'll probably hit him like a brick wall when he reaches forty, but it looks like Chandler could have done with doing the same thing. It doesn't really matter that Kent knows he can't, that they're different like that, but he still thinks it. Because, God, he looks tired.

'D'you want another?' Kent asks, nodding towards the abandoned mug on the coffee table. The tea must be stone-cold by now and he didn’t even get a chance to touch it.

Chandler hums something between assent and refusal, but Kent’s having another anyway so he makes two. Once or twice he feels as if someone’s watching him—the prickling feeling on the back of his neck is too familiar, always a little bit sinister—but that has to be his mind filling in because they’re on their own and none of the other explanations make sense, and when he returns Chandler’s studying the edge of the coffee table. Processing, probably. It took him a while, too.

Chandler offers his thanks only with a look; Kent nods, a tiny smile teasing at the edge of his mouth, and lets Chandler ease the mug out of his hand. The time for conversation’s passed, then. That’s fine. Kent’s never been afraid of a companionable quiet, not like Erica, not like Mansell.Yet he still wants to be able to murmur _It’s all right, sir_ or _You’re safe with me_. He wants to be brave enough to reach over and slip his palm against Chandler’s, feel the warmth from the mug memorized on his skin, tighten and twist their fingers in a moment’s solace. But he’s not that brave, never has been, and Chandler’s fingers are wrapped firmly around the handle of the mug. Out of reach.

But there’s not much he can do about that, so he settles back down and retrieves the paperback, flicking through the pages until he spots a paragraph that looks familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 12 March 2015.
> 
> Thank you all, again, for all the support and the lovely words! I'm so pleased that you're enjoying reading this fic as much as I've enjoyed writing it. x


	6. Chapter 6

It’s after Kent’s ignored six texts from Erica that she calls him. He’s not really in the mood to speak to her—it’s been more difficult lately, with what happened hovering in the background; Kent’s got a hunch that the awkwardness might just be on his end—but Chandler’s been looking up every time his mobile makes a noise so he dives for the thing when it switches from chiming to indicate a message arriving to actually, properly ringing.

‘Yes?’ he asks as soon as the device is at his ear; Erica tuts at such a volume that Kent thinks, not for the first time, that she should have been a schoolteacher.

He’d walk away and put a few walls between him and Chandler, since he probably doesn’t want to hear them bicker for five minutes straight—but there’s really no point. There aren’t as many walls in Chandler’s flat as Kent had expected; they certainly aren’t useful. He could go and hide in the bathroom, but that’s a bit weird, so they’ll have to just make do. 

‘Listen here, you slippery bastard,’ she says. 

Kent rolls his eyes. It’s not the first time he’s been called that. But he knows when he’s been caught, so he listens to her outline the plan again; he read every text, he just hadn’t done anything about them, so he already knows what’s coming. A dinner, she says, on Friday. Yes, with Finlay. Mansell, whatever you want to call him. She’s cooking, he’s invited.

‘So you’ll come, yeah?’

‘Erica, I…’

Kent doesn’t know where he’s going with that. At all. He stares at Chandler’s fridge and it has no wisdom to impart. Of all the times in his life he’d have been perfectly happy to see a ghost rearranging magnets to spell out a convenient excuse, now would be it. Except Chandler doesn’t have fridge magnets. (Of course he doesn’t.) 

‘Emerson.’ She never uses his full name. ‘Please.’

‘Stop that.’

(Damn, he shouldn’t have said that. Now she’ll know it’s working.)

‘Come on, you know you’re being unreasonable,’ she says, not for the first time. ‘I put up with what’s-his-face for eight months.’

‘We don’t talk about what’s-his-face.’ He murmurs the words, suppresses the memory like he always does. ‘And I know you did.’

‘Yeah.’

They’ve reached the same impasse they’ve arrived at a thousand times, staring at the cinderblock and sighing before turning around and deciding to try again later, the most nonspecific time frame they can think of. Kent wishes he could say that the past is in the past, but Ed would probably pull that face he does and make him sit through a series of powerpoints arguing for the opposite, so he rubs at the hinge of his jaw and waits for Erica topoint them in a direction. Not necessarily the right one, just… a direction. 

‘Look,’ she says, ‘he’d never say it in a million years, but Fin—he wants to try, all right? I know he’s full of shit—‘

‘At least one of you knows.’

‘He’s a decent bloke. You know that.’ There’s a conspicuous silence. ‘I’m not going to say he’s changed, because God knows if he has or not, but I’ve taken the chance. I might be betting on long odds, but aren’t we all?’ And another. ‘I don’t want to pit you against him or him against you, but I swear, Em, I’ll come over there and kick your arse if you try to make decisions for me.’

She will; Kent knows she will. She’s done it before. A few times, actually. Yet he still can’t get it through his skull that he shouldn’t react the way he does. She’d tried to explain the last time—that she didn’t mean that he shouldn’t _feel_ it, or that he should batter down his instinctual concern in favour of some sort of emotional numbness _;_ just that he needn’t tell her anything but the truth. 

‘I know you punched Tom Radley for me in sixth form, and that was lovely of you, but…’ She trails off for a moment, the warmth of the memory seeping through into her words before she reins it in. ‘That was years ago. I’m pretty sure you’re Mr Rathbone, now.’

He’d been the one who’d sat them all down, after, in some other teacher’s office and talked to them in that careful, even voice while he mopped up Tom’s nose. Made them sort it all out. It seemed easier, somehow, at seventeen. Is that how it’s supposed to work? Kent’s not sure whether his thirties were supposed to be more straightforward or not. That’s one of the things no one teaches you.

‘You and your bloody metaphors,’ he mutters, in the end, wishing for the first that time he was at home so he could collapse onto the soft and bury his face in a lumpy cushion. ‘All right. But, just so you know: I’m hoping for something to be called in.’

‘Twat.’ She laughs, though. ‘By the way, are you still at your DI’s?’

‘Hasn’t he told you?’

‘He wasn’t sure if you’d gone part-time or not.’

‘Huh.’ That’s an odd way to put it. ‘Yeah. I mean, no.’

‘You’re there, aren’t you?’

Kent makes a strangled sound, because she sounds so smug.

‘You _are_.’ She’s smiling now, Kent would bet his last tenner on it. ‘Enjoying yourself?’

‘It’s not like that.’ 

‘I know, Em. I know,’ Erica says, equal parts tender and apologetic. ‘Is he all right?’

‘I think so.’ Kent pauses; he wants to turn and check, but he always feels as if he’s under a microscope with Erica’s voice at his ear when it comes to things like this; she knows too much about him. ‘I mean yeah, but you know…’

‘I thought you were just exaggerating about him, at first. Only Fin says the exact same thing, so yeah, I get the idea. I hope he cheers up soon.’

‘Thanks. I’ll say.’

It pains him to think that she can do that and he’s been such a bastard; he was Iago, he was the one lurking and waiting to strike, selfish and unhappy. To borrow Erica’s term, when she’d laid into him: shady as fuck. They’d tried to settle it months ago as best they could, but there are still remnants, like stains scrubbing couldn’t get out, that Kent can’t help but be drawn to. He’s trying. Perhaps not enough, because the thought of Friday drops stones in his stomach and he almost can’t think it, but he finds himself running his thumb back and forth against the sharp edge of the countertop and jerks his hand back, feeling like he’s got no idea where his boundaries are anymore. The gloss is dulled.

‘You’re a good man, Em.’ This is where she’d pat his shoulder, or wrap her fingers around his elbow until he looks at her. ‘You know that, yeah?’

No. He’s not. Not at the core.

But he still sighs and says, ‘Sometimes.’

Kent can imagine her, sitting there with her infernal cat, narrowing her mouth and thinking _You’ve never been sure, you poor thing. Is that why you’re a policeman, one of the good guys? You used to think you couldn’t be a baddie in a uniform. That’s what Mum said to me, when you went. You take everything to heart, even yourself. We’re all dark, Em, somewhere. You want light._ Except they’ve never had this conversation, even when they’ve talked about everything else, and Kent’s got no idea what she thinks of him anymore. Once, he would have known. Distance is a funny, paradoxical thing.

‘I’ll let you go, then,’ she says. ‘Don’t be a stranger. I miss your stupid voice, you know.’

‘Dunno why.’ It’s supposed to be funny, but for some reason Kent feels as if it falls flat.  ‘Yeah. Me too.’

‘See you Friday.’

It’s testament to how much he wants to forget that’s happening at all that it’s already slipped his mind a little; as the line clicks silent his stomach lurches. He should have expected it, really, because Erica makes friends like he makes cups of tea and she’s always got people over. He’s never managed to escape for very long before.

He stares at the screen until the light dies away, thumb hovering over nothing in particular, and can’t stop himself from murmuring, ‘Fuck.’

‘Everything all right?’

Kent resists the sudden urge to swear again, because for someone so hyperaware of how voices carry in this flat he’d completely forgotten his concern when faced with the prospect of actually having to keep a meal down with Erica and Mansell, together, in the same room. It seems like a superhuman effort; he’s been doing his best just to be all right with the idea of them together, and while there’s been progress, Kent can’t imagine actually sitting across a table from them.

Then again, he couldn’t have imagined standing in Chandler’s kitchen in his socks to take a call, either, and that’s just happened. So, there’s that.

‘It’s not the station,’ he ends up saying, turning back to the sitting room without actually formulating a plan to move.

He feels like he’s twisting away from himself, away from Chandler’s gaze, away from the belated shame—hot and painful—that’s just been poured leaden into his stomach. He finds himself grazing touch around his orbital bone and whips his hand away as soon as he realises. His mind must be in a treacherous mood because he finds himself wondering what Chandler made of the reference to whats-his-face. It doesn’t matter, really—Kent’s not explaining it, he hadn’t been exaggerating, they don’t talk about whats-his-face unless absolutely necessary—and let’s be honest. Chandler’s probably not bothered. They may all be of the curious sort, they’re all in CID after all, but you’ve got to draw the line somewhere.

It would just be whats-his-face’s style to show up now, actually, when it’s both the least likely and the least convenient.

‘That’s not what I meant.’

Chandler’s voice draws Kent away from his own head, the words both a question and an order at once in that way Chandler’s perfected. Kent looks at him properly for the first time in what’s probably hours—he’s got a little too used to their quiet coexistence, he knows, he doesn’t need it rubbing in—and finds that he recognises the files he’s been reading now he’s closed them around a few fingers. They’re Ed’s, the ones Kent had brought back at Miles’ command. So if Chandler’s actually asking, it’s not just that he’s asking: it’s that he’s asking when he’s got a (pseudo) case right there in his lap.

He must bored enough to find him interesting. Sometimes you need to talk about something so far removed from yourself that you might as well be someone else, someone who’s not got all the healing to do—Kent’s pretty sure he actually had a conversation about Erica’s taste in art, actually _responded_. With interest. She’s never given him a funnier look before or since.

It’s the same reason why he’d stood in Ed’s front room with the late morning light streaming in through the dust, Mansell sat at the table at his back as they both waited for the archivist to return, and pressed his spine into the arch of the doorframe as he waited for the phone in his hand to ring. His leg might’ve been shaking, the muscle mid-spasm, but he was thinking of something other than the welts and that was all he could’ve asked for.

So he goes back to sit down where he’s spent the majority of the evening, sighs, and leans his elbows on his knees. If he's going to stalk about this this he's going to do it while staring at the floor. It's the only way to proceed.

‘You know that Mansell’s going out with my sister.’ 

‘I am… peripherally aware.’

‘That’s very diplomatic of you, sir.’

They both know they know. They’ve spent long enough looking at the bruises. Chandler’s eyes linger for a moment around Kent’s orbital bone—or he might be imagining that, and he shouldn’t, because even now the memory hurts. Not of the punch, not the ache. Not really. Just the way Chandler hadn’t looked up. But he’s looking up at him now, with a still-fading bruise around his own eye, and it’s something else.

He could have felt a surge of power, taken a strange pleasure in the reversal of fortune, and it might have even been understandable. He wouldn’t have been the first to feel that way; he won’t be the last, certainly not in their station. But he’s not the only one capable of forgiveness, either. Erica always said that forgiving’s not forgetting; you don’t have to do both. It’s not problematic that, at the same time, he can’t forget that stabbing disappointment and his heart still flutters at the way Chandler draws breath to speak.

‘It seems like the sort of thing it’s best to tread lightly around.’ His eyes flick around the room before settling Kent. ‘If you don’t mind me saying.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Kent admits, pulling at the sleeves of his jumper until they cover his knuckles, a habit he’s retained since school. ‘Though it didn’t really do the same to you.’

Chandler gives a tiny, careful sigh. ‘These things tend not to go how you want them to.’

Kent thinks he can hear so much in that sentence. So much that’s almost said. Then he trips over himself in remembering the obvious, swallows down the guilt he’s never managed to expel, and forces himself back to the subject at hand.

‘Anyway, she wants me to go round hers on Friday for a meal with the both of them.’ He draws his sleeves back again, wraps the fingers of one hand a little too tightly around his other wrist. ‘Which is easier said than done.’

His heartbeat thuds against his palm, quiet and steady, nestled beneath his wrist bone. It should be reassuring, or terrifying, or something, but he’s felt too many wrists with no sound whatsoever that the instinct’s gone. What’s more nerve-wracking, and what’s making the skin on the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably, is that way Chandler’s gaze keeps flicking back to Kent’s clasp of fingers.

Chandler’s eventual interruption of the silence makes Kent release his grip. ‘I… I can imagine.’

There’s something plaintive about his words, something that Kent wants to fix—to ease—but he doesn’t know how or if he’s allowed or where it comes from at all, what injury he’d be cradling in his hands. Maybe it’s literally an imaginary one, a lesion on constructed memory; maybe it’s not. He wants to say it’s all right. Whatever remains, remains. They go on. The problem is that Kent just doesn’t believe it. 

‘You wouldn’t come, would you?’

He almost means at as a joke, almost punctuates the words with a paltry chuckle, but the look on Chandler’s face interrupts.

‘Me?’

‘Yeah.’ Kent shrugs and finds a persuasive expression sneaking onto his face. ‘Moral support, or something.’

(He feels like he needs a lot of that at the moment. Chandler looks at him like he’s the last man he should consider for that job.)

‘I’m not sure…’

‘Trust me, she wouldn’t mind.’ She’d be bloody thrilled, but he’s not going to say that. ‘I’ll ring and ask, if you want.’

It doesn’t escape either of them that Kent’s not even thinking about consulting Mansell. If he’d been feeling gracious perhaps he would have wondered if he should, if something about this sudden invitation has to do with Mansell actually wanting to prove that he’s a decent bloke, but they passed that stage long ago. And the other half of him suggests that it’d be a good idea not to think about Mansell at all, because if he does then he’s bound to realise that he’s about to open a whole other can of worms. It’ll be enough material for Mansell to work with for about twenty years. Forty, if it goes badly.

‘You met her, didn’t you?’ Kent asks, distracting himself as much as Chandler. ‘At Ed’s book launch?’

‘Yes, briefly. She, um…’ Chandler looks troubled at the thought; Kent knows Erica can be a pain, but not usually to people who aren't him. ‘She had quite a bit to say about what happened during the Brooks case, actually.’ 

‘Oh.’ 

‘You—‘ Chandler sits back a little, his palm shifting away from its place on the arm of the sofa slightly. ‘You didn’t know.’ 

‘No, she didn’t mention that.’

Kent reckons it’ll be up to him to mention it, now. It’s been so long she probably thinks she’s got away with it. It’s not even as if they had anything else to worry about that night (apart from Mansell, and look how that turned out) so why she decided then was the time to practice taking someone down a peg or two, Kent can’t understand—

(—except maybe it’s more understandable than he thinks, maybe it’s just what he did, maybe they are the same, maybe they both need to learn to choose their time and place—)

He drags himself away from the idea; he’ll give it more thought later, that amorphous period of time where he’s banished most of his demons for the time being. Kent finds Chandler with teeth buried in his bottom lip as a quick wince travels across his feature as he falls back on the usual diversions and tries to reach out in order to straighten the edge of the book along the line of the table. Kent leans forward and does it instead.

Chandler watches the spot where Kent’s fingers have just been. ‘Sorry.’

‘Why are you apologising?’ He wants to tip Chandler’s chin up, make him look at him, make him _see_. ‘I should be.’

‘No, she was… '

‘Please don’t say she was right.’

Chandler smiles, sadly. ‘She has a point.’

Kent might have given her that, if he’d been feeling more generous, but instead he mutters, ‘She’s having it two years too late.’

He stopped digging up old aches and ancient stings when he realised forgetting’s a little easier than people think it is. You can’t wipe a memory completely, you can’t make the pain go away, but you can stop blaming. He’s never blamed Chandler, although his father muttered about it at the time, and Erica glared at Miles the one time they crossed paths at the side of Kent’s hospital bed. To them, Chandler’s his superior; they take the idea of him being responsible for his officers literally. But Kent’s on the inside, and he knows otherwise—Chandler gave a perfectly suitable instruction, something they do with every case, and something outside their control went wrong. It’s not all right, it’s not okay, it just… is.

‘This might seem like an odd question, but did she finish what she was saying?’

‘I, uh,’ Chandler’s taken aback by the query; he searches Kent’s face for pointers. ‘I think so.’

‘You’re safe, then,’ Kent says, not without a little breath of relief. ‘Trust me, you’d know if she wasn’t finished.’

 _You’ve been reprimanded and forgiven,_ he doesn’t say. _Reprimanded because she thought that’s what you deserved, and forgiven because she knows that’s what I think you deserve._ It’s what they’ve always been: the alpha and the omega, the question and the answer, the sin and the repentance. They never mean it that way—they don’t plan it—but that’s what they are. And yet if Kent is the resolution, then why can’t he seem to fix himself?

Now’s not the time.

Kent gathers his wits back together and dons a wry smile. ‘And, clearly you know Mansell, but I can see how that’d put you off.’ 

Chandler’s professionalism fights his instinct, and for a moment it looks as if it might win, but something in Kent’s chest peeks between his ribs and knows—somehow, the set of Chandler’s jaw does it, that’s the secret slipped—that he’s going to laugh. And Kent can’t stop himself from smiling at that thought, and it’s just then that Chandler catches his eye and his mouth curves and he does that thing he does when he’s honestly smiling, ducking his head out the way like he’s embarrassed. God knows why. 

Kent can’t not ask. ‘Would you?’

The moment stretches just a little too long, just to allow doubt and preemptive embarrassment to sprout, when Chandler says, ‘All right.’

Kent grins. He doesn’t mean to, but he does.

‘You can change your mind on the night, you know, if…’

He was going to say _if you take a turn for the worse_ , but it’s too soon (even now; probably only for him) and he settles for a vague hand gesture that means precisely nothing at all.

‘You’re used to breaking up our fights, anyway.’

He’s trying to be flippant about everything that’s happened.  It seems to be what both Mansell and Erica are doing, now, and to be honest it suits them both down to the bone. Kent’s not so sure; he feels things a little sharper still. His face had barely got back to normal before Erica was asking when he was going to get his next punch in because wasn’t it his turn now? She’d been pleased with his _No, it’s yours, choose your vic_ and thumped him in the arm with an exaggerated smile. Then she’d texted him a picture of her doing the same to Mansell, followed by _I can take care of myself. Don’t you forget that, Em._

‘I don’t think I’ll be much use now.’

‘No, probably not.’ There’s not much point in lying about that; Kent shoots another smile across the table anyway. ‘You’re good at looming, though. Should be enough.’ 

‘I’m glad I’m of use for something.' 

‘You’re more than overqualified, sir.’

It’s when he says things like that he’s not sure if he’s teasing. He might be. Or that might be an honest compliment, because he so rarely has such ample opportunity to offer them, and Chandler’s mouth quirks into a momentary curve so something in Kent’s chest constricts, winds itself a little tighter around a conceit that he’s carried around for too long. Or not long enough. One day, he’ll know if it’s penance or not.

*

'What's all this I hear about you bringing the boss to dinner?'

Kent turns and sees Mansell approaching, shucking his coat off as he walks through the incident room. It's a quarter of an hour after start of shift, but for Mansell that's virtually on time, so Kent groans to himself and wishes selfishly that they had another murder on their hands. He's not going to let it go if he's made a point of coming in to ask before Miles gets them started on the next pile of paperwork.

'It's nothing,’ he says, trying to deflect despite the futility of it all.

'So it's not true?' 

'I never said that.' 

Mansell grins; he approaches, as if to ruffle Kent's hair, but Kent swats at his arm before it's even extended and moves back towards his ever-struggling computer. He leans over as inconspicuously as he can and switches away from the window he'd had up: if they're going to talk about this—or if Kent's going to have to listen to Mansell talk at him about this--then he doesn't need them all knowing that he's been reviewing the protocol for clearing a police medical. 

'You did it, then?’ Mansell’s got his bawdy face on again. ‘Asked him out again?'

'I wouldn't go that far.'

'Wouldn't go how far?' Riley asks, wandering back in from where she'd stepped out to take a call, tucking her mobile back into her pocket.

Mansell turns and holds both arms out to indicate Kent as if he’s a newly opened exhibition. Kent shoots him an unimpressed look and crosses his arms; he’d try and put a stop to this, but it’d probably just make Mansell more determined, and at least the boss isn’t here to see it. Riley just looks between them both with a mixture of amusement and affectionate pity, both overlaid with a curiosity that’s a little wary of what Mansell’s so pleased about.

‘Kent here,’ Mansell starts, drawing out the embarrassment for as long as he possibly can, ‘has asked the boss to dinner.'

'Bit of a captive audience at the moment, isn't he? He can't really refuse.'

'No, really. They're coming round to Erica's.'

'Oh,' she says, drawing out the syllable until it's almost as wide as her smile. ' _Oh_! Congratulations, you!'

Before Kent knows what’s happening Riley’s manages to get her arms around his shoulders, dragging him off-balance until he’s got no choice but to let her squeeze him until he’s starting to wonder whether he’ll be the next one with a buggered collarbone.

'It's not a date,' he says, the words muttered against her woolen shoulder and virtually useless as an argument.

She doesn’t take any notice of his abject refusal to engage in their little performance; instead she holds him at arm’s length and pats his shoulder. ‘It was a bloody shame, what happened last time.’

It’s the first thing anyone’s said all day that Kent agrees whole-heartedly with. They’d all done their best to put that evening behind them—not to forget, because you never forget, you can’t and you don’t want to—but moving on’s more difficult than anyone thinks. Maybe they’ve all been forced to do it, with Skip suddenly acting as de facto DI and Kent as some sort of sergeant, although nothing’s been explicitly said. And they’d all worried that first week about Chandler, about his mind and all the time it’s suddenly got to torment him, but they’ve coped.

'Anyway, are you sure it’s not?’ Riley asks, snatching the opportunity to smooth down the shoulders of his jacket, as if she’s about to send him off to meet the boss in the next five minutes. ‘From what I’ve noticed, he’s not the only dense one around here.’

'It's not a date. I won't say it again.'

‘I bet I can make you,’ Mansell calls from where he’s pouring himself a cup of coffee.

'Don't start that.' 

Mansell waggles his eyebrows at them as he returns to his mess of a desk, chuckling like a cat that's got the cream. 'It gives a whole new meaning to boss-eyed, doesn't it?'

Kent groans. ‘You can sod straight off.’

‘You’re the one who’s bringing his boss to a family dinner.’

‘Give me a break, Mansell. It’s you and my sister, hardly the entire extended family, she’s not even told them about you yet—’

The edges of Mansell’s face falter for what’s probably only a minuscule portion of a second and Kent’s acutely aware that he can be cruel, that he throws out hard-edged words and doesn’t think them through half as much as he should. He can’t stop himself from proving, again and again and a-bloody-gain, that he lets his heart (as dark as it gets) get well ahead of his head.

‘And think about it,’ he continues, after a controlled breath. ‘He’s spent the best part of two weeks doing absolutely nothing. Even your company starts to look like a decent option for an evening.’

Riley tweaks Mansell’s ear as she walks past. ‘You have to admit he’s got a point there.’

Mansell grumbles and manages to spit out something that sounds a bit like, ‘I suppose.' 

‘You be nice,’ Riley warns, with a pointed finger. She mimes keeping an eye on him, her face dangerously straight.

'Who, me? Meddling? Never.' Mansell feigns insult with a hand to his chest, but winks.

Kent rolls his eyes and sits back down, heavily dropping into his chair. It’s odd, really, that when he thinks about it, he did ask Chandler out. But it hadn’t felt like that; he’d just thought it, then said it. _You wouldn’t come, would you?_ He’d been sure he hadn’t asked him out, that it wasn’t a date—that it was the furthest it could possibly get from a date, because is there anything less like a date than dinner with someone’s twin sister and her arsehole of a boyfriend?—but he’s been labouring under the assumption that asking Chandler out again would invariably come with the same internalised sense of terror. That it would make his voice catch and his hands shake. That it wouldn’t, in a million years, be that easy.

'You know I really won't, right, mate?' Mansell says a moment later, interrupting Kent’s thoughts, when Riley's settling back before her own computer and Miles is rounding the top of the stairs. 'Erica would kill me. Then you'd kill me. And I wouldn't be surprised if Chandler had a go after that, too.' 

'You'll have to do more than that to convince me, Mansell.'

'Really. I'll try to behave myself.’

The sincerity in his voice is just a little too much for comfort—Kent doesn’t know what to make of him, like this—and it breaks just in time.

Mansell grins and says, ‘Just don't give me anything to work with, and you'll be fine.'

Kent huffs and wishes he’d had the sense to pick up a strong coffee on the way in. ‘You can work with anything.’

'It's what makes me so good at my job.'

'Oh, piss off.'

'Although I agree with that advice,' Miles announces as he crashes through the doors, waving another handful of files in their direction. 'You'll probably want to keep him round just to get through this lot.' 

The fact that he’s got both hands occupied with bound papers doesn’t bode well. Mansell looks to his cup of coffee and shakes his head; they all know that he’s chosen an inadequate mug, now. He’ll need a lot more fuel than that to keep going to lunchtime. Kent wishes, again and again and again, that he liked filter coffee, if only for his own sake, but he doesn’t.

So when Miles is filling them in on the new digitisation initiative from the higher-ups, Kent says, ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

Riley mouths _You’re a dear_ just as Miles’ indignant, old-school muttering reaches a crescendo.

'See you Friday,' Mansell says as he plucks a single file from the pile, and Kent can’t help but think the old adage is looking to be true.

They _are_ starting to sound like each other.

*

Kent could view the evening’s weather as an omen for what’s to come, but in reality he’s just glad he knows where he’s up to with it. There’s little to misinterpret with clouds that colour.

There’s been a wet wind, the threat of a storm in the air since midday when he’d popped out for a proper coffee, but when he reemerges from the station doors (having quite deftly avoided running into Mansell on his way back from the toilets, if he does say so himself) there’s no chance that they’ll get through the night without at least one downpour. At least there’s a certainty about one thing—because everything else is so far up in the air that it’ll probably feel the rain on its shoulders before Kent does.

He goes back to his flat, first, and listens to Hannah alternate between filling him in on what he’s missed round their neck of the woods and asking him about his plans for the night. He covers the way her suggestive tone makes him blush by burying himself almost headfirst in his wardrobe, busying himselfwith the search for the jumper Erica had chucked at him for his last birthday. It doesn’t really matter, but in the face of things Kent thinks she might appreciate it. On a subconscious level, at least. She’d never admit it to anyone’s face.

‘So,’ Hannah says, sat cross-legged on the end of his bed. ‘Are you gonna say something to him tonight, or what?’

Kent makes a show of thinking, hard, then shrugs and pulls the discovered jumper (navy, heavy and reassuring) over his head.

‘Or what.’

‘Funny one, you are.’

He flashes her a sarcastic smile and she grins back, gathering up her hair into a ponytail.

‘Come on though.’ She motions for him to come closer and picks off a loose string of cotton from the arm. ‘You know you’d ride him like a stolen horse.’

‘Please,’ Kent says, wincing, ‘never _ever_ say that again.’

‘No guarantees with me, Em.’ Her phone sounds from the next room, giving her an out from Kent’s borrowed-from-Miles-on-a-bad-day stern glare.

She glances back over her shoulder once she’s in the doorway and aims a finger in his direction. ‘No guarantees.’ 

He calls an insult after her unneeded reminder but it’s only met with laughter, and when he leaves she makes sure to tell him to ring if he needs anything and not to do anything she wouldn’t. He grumbles something disparaging about that, too, and her laughing _Go on, get out, you twit_ stays with him until he’s back digging the keys to Chandler’s flat out of his jeans’ pocket, panicking a little when he tries the wrong one first.

Chandler seems positively serene, despite the fact he’s facing what’ll probably be a very uncomfortable car journey, as Kent tries not to pace and fails. He puts it down to an extra painkiller or two—who hasn’t done it? Who hasn’t been tempted when faced with an evening with Mansell?—but his gaze is far too perceptive for that. Kent’s seen him a bit glazed over, and he certainly isn’t now.

They exchange words that feel a little bit more conspiratorial than they should: Chandler asking what Erica does, again, sorry but it’s slipped his mind. Kent answering with enough detail that from a suspect it would seem to them to be a lie. Chandler mentioning something she’d let slip at Ed’s launch party and Kent adopting an expression that’s exasperated enough to make Chandler smile, a little, and Kent’s throat to close up as Hannah’s question comes back to haunt him.

He checks his watch again and realises he really can’t put it off for very much longer. Chandler seems to be more aware of this than he is, because he’s just there waiting for the cue, but Kent still looks at him and wonders.

‘You’re sure about this?’

(He has to ask. The problem is that he’s not sure which of them he wants to give an answer.)

‘Kent.’

He turns away and nods; it’s just his name but it’s an answer. He knows what Chandler means. It’s shorthand for _Pull yourself together_. Or maybe that’s just his mind filling in the gaps when moments ago he’d been looking for one to slip through. He can’t tell if he wants to be reassuring or to be reassured, but that’s not new, so he takes a deep breath and lifts Chandler’s car keys from the side table.

‘Let’s get this over with, then.’

‘It can’t be that bad,’ Chandler says, and Kent stills at the optimism. ‘She’s your sister.’

Kent can’t think of any response except to shrug; he doesn’t quite trust himself to open his mouth and not tell him everything about him and Erica, how they have highs and they have lows, how there’s not as much certainty in him as there used to be. It’s just—it’s stupid, that’s what it is. He keeps telling himself that as they go downstairs, but even so, he can’t trick his own biology. Something about Chandler’s inflection had made him flush.

*

It’s raining properly by the time they’re halfway there, the pedestrians they pass either fumbling with umbrellas or foregoing them entirely in favour of hiking their coats over their heads. Some don’t even bother at all—Kent knows the feeling, sometimes you don’t care, sometimes there’s vindication in being rained on without mercy—and Kent watches as the glow of the traffic lights splays in the wet air.

‘There’s an umbrella or two in the boot,’ Chandler says, suddenly, as if it’s just occurred to him that he cares.

For some reason, Kent says, ‘It might stop,’ in that voice everyone has when they’re discussing the weather.

Chandler hums. ‘Perhaps.’

The rain patters on the roof but is drowned out by the engine as the car accelerates. Neither of them move to interrupt either sound, but Kent can’t quite focus on it. Once, when he checks his blind spot before merging, Kent catches Chandler looking at him in that half-concerned way Miles and Riley sometimes adopt, but he can’t sit there and watch him do it. He has to let it go and focus on not taking the wrong turn that he’s usually fooled by on the way to Erica’s. When they’re sat at another set of lights he’s sure that Chandler’s noticed the way he’s tapping the fingers of one hand against the steering wheel, but he can’t dwell on that either. Even if it does make him go uncomfortably hot and tighten his grip.

The rain does its best to dampen the flush but they’re not in it for long enough to make much of a difference. The wet chill down the back of his neck would usually do it, but he’s sharing an umbrella with Chandler (there’d only been one, after all—emergency provisions) and apparently that’s enough for his treacherous body to make up lost ground. That, and waiting for Erica to unlock the door for them. It would be like her to dawdle and make them stand virtually shoulder-to-shoulder for longer than necessary. Either way, it’d work for her: something would happen (which Kent daren’t think about, let alone hope for) or she’d get to enjoy the knowledge that he’s squirming.

She arrives just in time to stop him doing himself an injury, because as the lock audibly shifts,  Chandler takes what feels like a breath that proceeds something weighty to break the lull they’ve lapsed into with the rain pattering above their heads. That’s swallowed down as soon as Erica appears, hauling Kent instead with a _Hello, you idiot_ , and ushering Chandler in with a _Don’t be shy_ that makes Kent roll his eyes and Mansell, surprisingly, do the same as he appears. 

Erica’s tabby cat, Eli, regards their little group from his vantage point on the top of a low bookcase, his faintly mottled cream tail flicking rhythmically from Gladwell’s spine to a commemorative volume of war poetry. When it’s clear they’re not leaving—coats off, invitations to come in and make yourself at home extended—Eli takes his usual stance with a loud, put-out meow as he leaps to the floor and trots off to greener, Kent-free pastures. He’s never been fond of Kent, not even when he was a kitten. Over time, the feeling’s become mutual. They’re so careful around one another now that once Erica had threatened to rename the creature Chandler.

‘Don’t mind the sourpuss,’ Erica says just as Eli’s tail flicks through the doorway and disappears in the direction of her bedroom.

(It would have been quite charming if she hadn’t looked straight at Kent while saying it.)

Kent’s tempted to roll his eyes but he stops himself when Erica fixes her attention on Chandler. He’s not taking an eye off her for a second, just in case she goes in for a scolding again. And in some primitive part of his brain, some murky depth of his brain stem, he has an urge to reach out and take Chandler’s hand. It’d only take the slightest of movements, and it’d be one last bastion of reassurance in the face of Erica on a mission, but Kent quietly clears his throat and curls his hand into his pocket instead.

‘Hello again,’ Erica says, sparing Kent the anxiety of a significant glance; there’s no way she didn’t notice whatever that was. ‘I know it’s been a while, but I heard you’ve been through the wars.’

’Some might call it comeuppance.’

Chandler’s words are solemn but even Erica pulls a face at them. Kent’s ready to start the usual diatribe that they all trot out when Chandler starts appropriating blame but a surprisingly nimble Mansell gets there first.

‘Come off it, boss,’ he says, going in for an automatic friendly clap on the shoulder but he quickly rethinks it. ‘Comes with the territory, doesn’t it?’ 

When Chandler attempts a weak, lilting smile—one that says he’s only agreeing for politeness’s sake—Erica takes the matter into her own hands.

‘Course it is. Anyway, from what I’ve heard that was more of an accident than anything else—’

Mansell makes a show of faux-buffing his fingers on his shirtfront while Erica’s still commanding Chandler’s attention, at which Kent rolls his eyes and considers fixing him with a warning look, but the situation shifts a little too quickly for him and Erica’s suddenly back to slip a hand into the crook of his elbow. He looks to her but somehow manages to glimpse Chandler en route—Erica smirks at him for that, for a second, at his undoubtedly surprised face. He hadn’t expected Chandler to seem quite so… well, comfortable’s not quite the word yet, but it might be soon. 

‘Drink?’ she asks with an expression that says _go on_. 

‘No, thanks. I’m driving and he’s drugged up to the ears.’

Erica needles him with a look that threatens a pointed comment, but she doesn’t push. She knows he’s been drunk in front of Chandler before, and more than just a little squiffy. After Mansell’s wedding he’d rung her and whined what he’d thought was _I’ve fucked up in front of the boss_ into her answering machine, only apparently he’d long lost the capability to be intelligible and she thought she’d heard something with an entirely different tone. She’d been so proud of him for all of five minutes, but now isn’t the time to bring all that up. 

Instead she double checks with Chandler, who holds up a hand and shakes his head despite Mansell’s hopeful expression. 

Erica promises to return Kent as soon as she can, like he’s a pie tin or something, as she steers him towards her kitchen with a hand tight on his forearm. He scoffs but in vain, and he glances over his shoulder—Orpheus to Eurydice—only to get her hand rerouting his gaze rather than his feet.

‘Come on,’ she mutters into his ear. ‘Leave him to have a chat with a familiar face that isn’t your ugly mug.’

Kent does his best to elbow her in the ribs for that but she twists out of the way just in time and reaches safety on the other side of the kitchen door. Kent tuts and follows, joining in her soft chuckles despite how much he doesn’t want to. She grins at him from behind a bottle of wine and wags her head in that mock-serious way she has.

‘You should have one, you know,’ she says, indicating for Kent to retrieve a pair of glasses from the cabinet behind his head. ‘Loosen up a bit. If he’s on half as many painkillers as I was then you can be sure he’s already more buzzed than you’ll be.’

Kent hands over the glasses, fingers heavy around the spindly stem, and says, ‘That sounds like one of your challenges. Anyway, do you want us sleeping on your floor tonight?’

‘It’s the closest you’re going to get to getting into bed with him this week.’

He shushes her with a look that hovers between panic and aggravation. ‘I’d break my collarbone just turning over on your floor.’

‘I’m offended that you assume I’d let you both sleep on the floor.’ She pauses, faux-pondering. ‘I mean, Chandler could have the sofa.’ 

Kent chooses to glower instead of dignifying that with an answer. 

‘Fine,’ she says, twisting the neck of the bottle of red in her hands; the cap scratches free. ‘Only trying to help.’

‘Yeah, and look where that got me.’

Erica shoots him a look as she pours herself the beginnings of a glass; Kent reroutes his gaze to his shoes and rubs his palm against the back of his neck.

‘You’re all right, Em,’ she says, with a nod through the convex edge of her glass. 

Kent doesn’t reply; instead he listens for the low tone of voices in the next room. They’re there but he can’t tell if it’s comforting or not. Erica ignores him, lets him have his moment of conflicted silence, and when he opens his mouth again she must know it’s to say sorry because she waves it away before he’s got any of the syllables out.

‘Don’t apologise.’ It’s a warning, but it’s warm. ‘It’ll only make it worse.’

She sips, then wrinkles her nose and stares at the wine as if it’s insulted her personally. ‘Christ, you could use this stuff to unblock toilets.’

A sudden laugh escapes Kent—the moment passes. ‘You let Mansell pick?’

Erica nods, her face as sheepish as she allows, and Kent rolls his eyes.

‘You brought that upon yourself, then. Put it down, keep it for cooking or something. Apparently you know how to do that, now.’

‘Knob.’ 

‘Yeah, thanks. Open this one. Chandler recommends it.’

‘I thought you said he’s out of his mind on painkillers,’ she says, pulling another face when she notices it’s not a screw-top. She crouches down to leaf through one of the drawers; it’s a mess, as usual, and Kent can’t see why there’d be a corkscrew in with the takeaway menus. ‘You can’t have had him trailing behind after you in Tesco.’

Kent straightens a fridge magnet. ‘He already had it in.’

Chandler had handed it over with a slight sigh and, _I’m not going to be getting through it any time soon,_ sounding for all the world as if he’d like to guzzle the lot. Kent can’t blame him for that; he’d been eyeing up the end of a bottle of gin when Miles had rung and given directions to Ed’s house.

But that excuse must pass muster, because Erica doesn’t look at him for too long trying to ease more information from his mouth. Instead she gets to pouring herself a glass of that bottle instead. It gets a mildly surprised expression, and one or two bolder sips, so that must be a good sign. It’s when she tops up the glass with another glug, her marker of success, that Mansell returns. 

‘Really dropping him in it, aren’t you?’

Kent doesn’t turn to look at him. Instead he enjoys pouring the dregs of his pick down the sink. ‘He’s here to stop either of us giving the other another black eye.’

‘Oi, I’m perfectly capable of doing that.’

Kent half-raises his hands in defeat; it wouldn’t be the first time Erica’s adopted that role in a crisis.

‘I didn’t force him to come.’ He starts out with a lot more force than he keeps at the end, when he shrugs and takes a keen interest in the floor. ‘Just asked.’

Erica catches Mansell’s elbow as he passes. ‘D’you reckon that counts as asking him out again, Fin?’

Mansell comes to a stop and looks between them, his eyes dashing between their faces. There’s something a little scared about it, which is horrifying—the last time Mansell had looked at Kent like that, he’d been losing quite a lot of blood—but Kent tries to soften his bristly expression and Erica tightens her fingers, prompting, and Mansell finds his feet again. 

‘Dunno,’ he says, taking a moment to look conspicuously through the narrow doorway. ‘Bit of a toss-up, really.’

‘Piss off, the both of you.’

They both laugh; Mansell huffs in that way he does when he's only managed to get the same reaction as usual out of them, while Erica laughs slowly and warmly, a low movement like honey. It's almost painful to hear, although it's been directed towards him too many times to count, and it's when Erica sends Mansell out with a nudge to his arm and captures Kent's elbow with her other hand as she leans past him to another impossibly situated cupboard. Glass clinks as she gives the joint a squeeze.

'Don't pander to me,' Kent says, quietly, when she returns to full height.

'As if.'

He smiles at that. He knows, fundamentally, that she’s not just saying that. Erica had made a point of making sure that he knew going in that she didn’t want this evening to be some sort of overwrought festival of faux politeness, some display of overdone civility that none of them really suit. _You don't even have to be nice to Fin_ , she'd texted one evening when Kent had stood in his own flat for an hour or so, unpacking and repacking. _I just want you normal, yeah? He'll take the piss out of you, you'll lay into him for it, I'll goad you both and your poor old boss can keep score._

All he'd sent back was a sad smiley face. Then she'd returned with a chicken emoji and he'd smiled and thought if that was a challenge, then he's got to do it. He's got to show that she isn't always right about everything.

'What are you two gossiping in here about, then?' Mansell asks as he swerves back in. 

Kent's surprised to find that he somehow manages to cope with anything Erica (quite literally) throws at him. He even manages to get that tea towel to stay hanging on the cupboard door. It's always slipping off, and like many things in Erica’s flat it seems to have a particular vendetta against Kent (he’ll put it back and it always, _always_ , waits until he’s turned his back or walks away before slipping to the floor). He’s tried every trick in the world with it, ranging from threats to an earnest imploration (he’d been quite drunk that night) and yet here he is, the man who can’t even get blu-tack to do his bidding at the station, getting it to stay in place like it’s made of velcro. 

Mansell, of course, interrupts this brief moment of lessened scrutiny, 'The boss’s looking a bit lonely out there, Kent, and as his date...'

He trails off, letting Kent fill in the rest. Except it's too cringe-worthy to even think.

‘This place isn’t big enough for the three of us,’ he mutters instead, ducking through the small doorway and only just avoiding Mansell’s attempt at a laddish elbow to the ribs. 

He breathes out for a long moment as he returns to the main room, eyes closed, and opens them to a scene that seems like there might be some exclamation of ‘ _surprise!_ ’ in the next few moments. Chandler’s sat at the corner of one sofa, which is entirely ordinary, except he’s scratching Erica’s usually surly cat under the chin, which isn’t. The only thing typical about the situation is the fact that the cat had reemerged as soon as he’d disappeared into another room. 

‘I see you’ve met Eli,’ Kent says, walking over and sitting down. ‘He’s a terror.’

Eli takes that as an invitation to butt his blond head against Chandler’s suddenly still hand, doing a very good job at looking like a perfectly amiable feline. Kent watches and shakes his head, because it would be that creature’s prerogative to make him look like a shoddy liar, and it’s stretching under Chandler’s long fingers in a way that’s almost smug, as if it knows Kent’s thought about Chandler’s hands far too much and got nowhere as close. 

‘He seems all right.’

‘To you, maybe. Wait until you cross him.’

Chandler’s lips twitch then, a soft uptick of a smile that Kent desperately wants to kiss. He battles that down, because this is Chandler and this is his sister’s flat and he’s certainly not going to do anything about his ridiculous, unmanageable feelings at the moment. Even if whatever magic touch Erica has with lighting manages to make Chandler look like he does at his height save for the old bruises, reminding Kent of a great cat, sleek and smooth.

When Kent finds himself thinking _He’s an endangered species, this man_ , he knows he’s gone too far. Those are thoughts that usually only battle their way to the surface when he’s taken something to help him sleep, and offering them safe harbour in his waking hours is asking for trouble.

'Mansell hasn't been harassing you, has he?' Kent asks, ending the lull that felt as if it could coax even more out of the recesses of his ribs.

‘No,’ Chandler says. The notion stills his hand so suddenly that Eli nudges his fingers again, pushing against the underside of his wrist until the movement resumes. ‘Why, should he have been?’

‘Just that they’ve started on me already, that’s all.’ He huffs, as if to say _If you can call it that._ 'You know what he's like.'

Chandler hums in agreement, low and warm, before asking. ‘And your sister?'

‘No need to worry about her,’ he says, and maybe because he’s actually got a witness to those words now he’ll abide by them.

He daren’t look at Chandler for a moment or two; the silence is kept from being too heavy by the intermittent purring (the cat’s just showing off now) and Kent just knows that Chandler’s got that face of his on. The one that says he’s mulling something over. He doesn’t need to see it to feel whatever it is he’s feeling about having put it there.

It's when Eli gets fed up of waiting for them to deign to pay attention to him that Kent starts to suspect that something may have to be done about this. When the cat picks himself up from the warm, slim space between Chandler's leg and the arm of the sofa and looks as if he's in a mood to stalk across Chandler's lap that Kent makes his decision. 

'Hold on a minute,' Kent says quickly, half-rising out of his seat to dare to do what henceforth he's never quite managed. At least, not without sustaining considerable damage.

He takes the risk now, though, and lifts him away from Chandler’s lap before he can paw at the sling or somehow mess with the delicate balance of the shoulder, of the bone. Chandler looks a little grateful, for while he might put up with a little pestering he doesn’t look very keen on Eli possibly mistaking him for a scratching post, though of course the cat takes no notice. He’s too busy vibrating with anger at being interrupted and before Kent has a chance to deposit him anywhere Eli takes a swipe and Kent’s hand comes away stinging.

‘Shit.’ He drops the cat in the space between them. ‘Every bloody time.’

Eli swipes a softened paw over his face and scrambles up the cushions, reclining on the back of the sofa. Presumably to watch him bleed to death, Kent reckons, as he holds the cut to his mouth. He shoots the creature a rankled look and gets a mewling cry in response, like he's the one who's the aggressor here. 

'Oh, come on,' Kent mutters, and it's almost funny until he realises he's having a conversation with a cat sat next to Chandler in his sister's living room. And if that's not a realisation that makes him reevaluate his life choices, then he doesn't know what is.

‘You all right?’

‘Course,’ Kent quips back, because come on, he’s had worse than this and Chandler’s sit there with a bone broken in half. ‘Bit rich, coming from you, sir. Anyway, it'll go.'  

'So will this.' 

Kent smiles; that's the first time Chandler’s said that and sounded confident. He doesn't seem to realise he's done it, cocking his head slightly at Kent's warm expression, but it dawns on him eventually. And it's that tiny quirk of Chandler's mouth that Kent knows he won't be able to shake the memory of. 

‘You think that’s bad?’ 

(Of course, it's too good to be true.)

Kent turns and finds Erica leaning against the doorframe, glass of wine in her hand and the familiar amused expression playing across her face. Their mother was dead wrong when she used to tell them as teenagers that they’d grow out of goading one another: Erica had only got better at that face, the one with the smirk that’s not quite a smirk but is just enough to get irritation under Kent’s skin, and Kent had never got any better at ignoring it.

‘That’s nothing.’ She continues, nodding to his hand; he’s pinching the cut, now, willing the stinging to stop. ‘You should have seen the time Eli slipped into the bath. When I was having a bath. It was carnage.’

Chandler looks appropriately horrified, though Kent’s heard this story a hundred times before and can pick out the embellishments as they’re added. It gets more and more ridiculous with each retelling, like Chinese whispers, but no matter what actually happened the cat still seems to love her. Which seems illogical, because Kent’s never dumped him in water. He’s never done anything to him, actually, but for some reason Eli’s decided that he must be some sort of cat antichrist. The anti-Bastet? Something like that. He’ll have to ask Ed. 

‘Are you forgetting when you had me look after him?’

‘That was one of my more misguided ideas,’ she says, though she doesn’t look as if she regrets it. ‘Though I still occasionally amuse myself on the Tube by picturing you besieged by a small domestic cat.’

‘He wouldn’t let me move around my own flat!’

Mansell barks out a laugh from somewhere deeper in the kitchen; Kent rolls his eyes. He wishes he was exaggerating, but no. If there was ever a cat born to be the pet of a Bond villain, it’s Eli. No, he’d probably be better as a Bond villain. As far as Kent’s concerned, the creature’s certainly got world domination on its mind.

‘Is that what that was?’ Chandler asks, his voice low as Erica turns back into the kitchen and there’s a noise that sounds a little like Mansell being hit—repeatedly—with a wooden spoon.

‘What was?’ 

Kent’s not really listening; he can’t place the reference immediately, and the cut’s actually really stinging.

‘A couple of months ago. You came in late a few days in a row.’ 

The flush of embarrassment that Kent had long relegated to the back of his mind resurfaces. He’d forgotten about that part of it, and he’d probably given a different excuse at the time. If you work in an office with Miles and Mansell, you don’t mention your inability to move the cat away from the warm patch of sunlight in front of the front door without sustaining injury. You chalk it up to bad traffic or a dodgy alarm clock.

‘Yeah. Erica’d gone up north to see someone from uni, and her friend who usually takes him had just had a baby, so…’ He trails off, motions with his injured hand. Eli and infants weren’t likely to go well together.

Chandler hums as if he’s come to the same conclusion, although he obliges when Eli stalks back to his side and nudges his hand. Kent watches, still amazed that Chandler’s all right with the cat kneading his thigh and that Eli’s fine with Chandler’s fingers under his chin.

‘How _are_ you doing that?’

He can’t keep the note of awe out of his voice; it’s telling, more so than normal, but Chandler’s face wears a fleeting smile and Kent can’t bring himself to mind.

‘I don’t know.’ Chandler admits. ‘Adeimantus had it right: the gods apportion calamity and misery to many good men.’

Kent doesn’t ask. He should, because he’s got no bloody idea who Adeimantus is or whether or not he should know at all. He probably should double-check that it’s not something that would go to Eli’s head, because that cat’s got a big enough ego as it is, but Chandler’s gaze has just flickered towards him for a split second, and it stuns Kent to realise that there was a sliver of fear in it, an expectation that his face would have been a relative of Miles’ when faced with Keats.

With any other person, Kent might have nudged them and offered a smile, a momentary gesture of warmth. But this is Chandler, and he’s still not sure who he is. And if anything in this world is an embodiment of calamity, it’s a cat. He wants to ask what Chandler did at uni, why he can come out with slivers of philosophy and poetry and all the things the rest of them cast aside, whether or not he’s read every book on his bookshelves. But he can’t—he’s not sure why, he’s just sure he can’t— so he just crosses his arms and watches out of the corner of his eye as Eli arches his back into Chandler’s hand. 

‘It’s all right, Em.’ Erica’s voice shatters the brittle silence of the room. ‘You’re not the only one who’s useless with him,’

‘You have to admit that I am spectacularly useless,’ Kent says, watching with a mixture of wariness and relief as Eli jumps from the sofa and slinks towards Erica, rubbing his sides against her jeans.

(He could have sworn that Chandler made a tiny, unmediated sound at Kent’s words, but things like that are usually just figments of his imagination so he tries not to dwell on it.)

‘The first time Fin came round he managed to kick the cat’s water bowl everywhere.’

Mansell emerges, carrying plates. ‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t really looking where I was going, was I?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake—' 

Kent buries his face in his hands. There’s no mistaking Mansell’s tone and the sound of Erica chuckling’s far too familiar to be painless. He peeks up at Chandler and finds not a smile but a commiserative expression, his gaze strangely gentle.

‘See what I mean?’ he mutters through his fingers.

‘Yes,’ Chandler admits.

‘God,’ Kent says, with a truncated, mirthless laugh. ‘How am I supposed to get through this sober?’

He doesn’t particularly expect an answer. It must be one of the world’s oldest rhetorical questions (maybe he’ll ask Ed about that) and he’s just recycled it, but Chandler actually looks ponderous and once Kent’s noticed it’s all he can see. He tries not to look but there’s only so many minutes one can stare at one of the postmodern concoctions that Erica’s been so fond of shoving on her walls. Life is a bit too finite for that, even when faced with this.

Chandler just murmurs, ‘That’s not a question I’m very good at answering,’ like he actually wishes he had a solution to offer.

There’s a wistfulness in his voice that’s a little too close to regret, or an apology; Kent thinks back and falls immediately upon the memory of Chandler topping up his glass three times before he managed to say anything that mattered in Ed’s kitchen, the few occasions when Miles has gone in and come out of Chandler’s office suspiciously quickly and left the door shut every time.

Hell, a lesser person would still be curled up inside a bottle. Officers have gone down for less. Chandler wouldn’t have been the first, nor the last; but he’s neither, he’s still there and still trying, and it’s just another in the line of things that Chandler thinks couldn’t matter any less and the rest of the team think the opposite. No one’s more proud than them; no one’s more ready to shout down anything the press would say about him. Hell, Kent’s pretty sure the lot of them would go up against Head Desk for Chandler’s sake. Miles isn’t a ringleader for nothing.

There’s a sudden string of expletives from the kitchen that Kent recognises as all of Erica’s favourites; Kent doesn’t turn to look (it hadn’t been preceded by a loud bang, so it’s unlikely to be serious), but Chandler does. Kent follows his gaze, because who knows, maybe something has happened and Chandler’s softly concerned expression almost demands he checks, but Erica reappears and gives the two of them a sheepish grin.

‘It's amazing how fast your mood can change once you've stepped in some water with socks on.’

Mansell chuckles from the kitchen; Kent smiles, a little, when she glances between him and Chandler and smiles the faintest bit wider in that way that learnt so well as teenagers; and Chandler… well, when Kent does turn to check, he looks like he can’t fault that conclusion, however unexpected.

Kent relaxes a little more after that. After all, it could be worse. It could be that time when Ed had two or three too many at Miles’ last birthday. Compared to that (there’s no need to repeat it), Kent’s glad to report, everything goes as smoothly as it possibly could. Even with Mansell in the room.

The cat looks deeply unimpressed from where it sits, watching, on the edge of the bookshelf, its tail swishing gently back and forth across the spines of cookbooks. It’s starting to look at Chandler a little differently, too, because Kent knows it usually sits on the counters but Erica had swatted Eli away when he’d crouched on his haunches to jump and he’s not stupid. He’s putting two and two together. Chandler’s the only brand new factor in the flat tonight. Kent supposes that means, in feline logic, he’s ruined something sacred.

Or perhaps that’s his fault. Everything’s his fault, according to Eli. No matter what Erica says. And if she even so much suggests that he’s jealous of the cat, of its easy ability to insinuate itself at Chandler’s side, then he’s not going to speak to her for a week.

*

They say goodbye on the doorstep; Erica comes down to the landing with them, leaving Mansell to make sure that the cat doesn’t shred the curtains. Kent thinks that’s a terrible excuse to get them alone, but he’s grateful, because even though Mansell’s been on what—for him—is probably his best behaviour when it comes to Chandler, he’s reaching the end of his rope. Nothing’s actually happened, but nothing actually has to. It’s just the continuation of the threat that wears him down.

‘Did you manage to park on the street?’ she asks, leaning out of the door a touch and pulling her jumper around herself.

‘Course not,’ Kent says, glad for his more substantial coat. ‘Only round the corner, though, so not as bad as it could be.’

‘Don’t slip on the way back, then.’

Erica directs that more towards Chandler than Kent, and after a moment’s surprise at the honest warmth in her voice Chandler nods back. She waves them off and Kent actually finds himself extending an arm to hover around the small of Chandler’s back as they descend down the steps. It’s a reflex, just in case, and by the time he’s realised he’s done it he’s already snatched his hand back, burying it in his pocket as penance. It’s about time he got these feelings in check—these ridiculous, unmanageable feelings—but his nervous system has other ideas.

They settle into a side-by-side rhythm on the pavement, Kent leaning into the collar of his coat as the wind picks up for a moment too long. The quiet’s a relief, even if it is London’s sort, peppered with distant rumbles of traffic and occasional shouts from the next street.

‘Thanks,’ Kent says all of a sudden. ‘For, you know. Coming with me.’

‘It’s all right.’ Chandler sighs; he can do it more emphatically again now, without as much skeletal repercussion. ‘Family can be… difficult.’

‘Yeah,’ Kent murmurs; it’s not so much an admission as a confirmation. ‘What about you, sir?’

‘No sisters,’ Chandler says, after a moment’s baited breath. ‘Just a brother.’ 

‘Oh?’

‘We don’t speak.’ 

‘Oh.’

It’s the same word but a completely different sound.

They’re both policemen. Chandler must know that there are a hundred questions crowding in the front of Kent’s mind, each vying to be the first out of his mouth, but he refuses to let any of them get a foot in. Give them an inch, and all that. Just because he can ask doesn’t mean he should, and Chandler’s always revealed information about himself in fits and starts. He never really looks like he wants to talk about it but he certainly doesn’t now, not with that look on his face.

Kent studies a deep crack in the pavement as a long faint hiss of a car speeding away on wet concrete cuts through their silence. It follows them down the street, crumbling across several slabs, and the drizzle picks up a little with the wind. It's not enough to do anything about, but Kent still lifts his face to twist his mouth into something irked. He shouldn't be surprised--it's London, after all, a city made more out of rain than anything else, but it's something to do. It's a change, and they're British. When it doubt, talk about the weather. Or pull faces at it; easy peasy.  

That's the theory, anyway.

‘Do I still owe you a drink?’

Kent frowns, and it's not at the large raindrop that's just managed to slop across the bridge of his nose. Chandler's voice is casual, but crafted, the question only posing as offhand. He’d recognise that tone anyway. He hears it coming out of his own mouth often enough.

‘I suppose not. You never said you’d buy me one,’ Kent says, and he ignores the jolt that comes with wondering if Chandler had plans of his own that night.

‘We never did get to the pub, though.’

Kent chances a look after that statement. Chandler’s busy watching anything but him, and to anyone who passed them on the street might just think that he’s taking extra precautions that would be of use to an injured man. It’s been raining and the day’s long gone dark, after all, and the pavements are papier-mâchéd with wet leaves and uneven at the best of times, so keeping an eye on their step isn’t a bad idea. But it’s too careful, and they have been to the pub since. Them and the rest of the team. Subdued occasions, the first couple of times, but they have been.

Chandler doesn’t expand on it; Kent keeps his hands in his coat pockets and walks on, hyperaware of how close they suddenly seem to be. Their gaits match, and their breath clouds in the cold air in similar rhythms. Not a mistake, then. Or, at least, an intentional one, unlike his fumbling _Would you like to join me—us?_ , but that wouldn’t be Chandler’s style at all, would it?

‘No,’ he says, heart in his throat as he spots Chandler’s car. ‘We didn’t, did we?’

He’s never been more aware of how thin civility is, or how he’s mismanaged his desire; he should have put all of that behind him long ago. Enough has happened since then, it should have just slipped down and off the edge of the page, but of course it hasn’t. Of course it keeps coming back to him when he’s not thinking about anything else, when he’s watching milk erupt into clouds through his tea. Of course it keeps his heart hovering at the back of his mouth, watching, waiting. And of course it makes him unable to cope with the very thought of Chandler opening his mouth ever again in case he confuses Kent any more thoroughly.

He feels irrationally close to panicking in a way that mustn’t be dissimilar to what those physicians felt when they realised they’d mismeasured the speed of the neutrino; they came so close to proving that everything they knew about the universe was mistaken. This certainly feels like a speed-of-light anomaly. Chandler doesn’t imply these things. He just doesn’t—that’s Kent’s job, when he’s feeling brave, and the rest of them pick up the slack with their jest.

And yet. And _yet_.

Kent no longer feels as sober as a baby, and for the split second when he wonders if Chandler’s going to stop and turn to him to say something else, he actually misses the painful feeling of knowing exactly what’s happening, of what to expect. It might still be difficult to see Mansell somehow manage to not be a dick and Erica look like she’s not pissing about this time, but some part of him knows where he’s up to with them. He might not like it but [at least] he knows what it is.

Chandler’s shoulder brushes Kent’s just as the sky starts spitting in earnest. Kent would have written it off as an accident, a product of a misstep, if it hadn’t happened again. And again.

(Maybe he should have had that drink.)

But he can't sit in a car with Chandler with that knowledge rattling around in his head and be expected to drive, so he turns back to look up at Chandler as he steps down from the kerb.

'Though I don't doubt that Miles'll have you responsible for getting all the rounds in when you come back,' he says, his side achingly cold as he stands in the wind alone.

(He tries not to notice how something in Chandler’s face falters—how there’s a dip in his expression before he half-smiles back through the wet—but whatever he’s just dampened, it’s for both their own good. He wouldn’t be safe to drive with that implication hanging in the air. He’d wrap the Range Rover around a lamppost, more likely than not.)

*

His phone beeps later, insistent and loud enough for Chandler to look up from the book he’s reading. Mansell’s name popping up on the screen should be a deterrent, but Kent opens the message in the safe and warmth of the flat despite his misgivings. _Thought it’d be like seeing a stern head teacher in fancy dress tonight, but he’s actually all right_. It’d almost be kind, if it wasn’t quickly followed by _Though that could just be the meds talking_. And Mansell would know. He spent a couple of years on the Drug Squad.

Chandler doesn’t ask, but Kent makes a point of muttering, ‘Oh, piss off,’ at the screen as he locks it again, so he must know.

Kent doesn’t mind.

(In fact, he likes it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 16 March 2015.
> 
> We’re getting close to the end of this one now - only two more chapters to go after this one! Thank you all again for all the support, it’s brilliant to think that you’ve enjoyed reading this. Hopefully you’ll find the ending parts just as good as the rest. x
> 
> For those who are interested: Chandler references Plato's _Republic_ in this chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

There’s no telling whether it’s the inevitable toll of the lack of lumbar support in Chandler’s sofa or the residual implication of Chandler’s softly-chosen words, ghosting in the wet night air, but Kent doesn’t sleep spectacularly well for the next few nights. None have been particularly bad—certainly not this one—but waking and not being sure where he is shouldn’t be be happening as often as it is. Tonight alone, Kent woke twice, once trying to clamber out of his nest of quilts as he would at home and almost collapsing to the floor with a thunk. 

Then there had been no dawn trickling in whatsoever; now, Kent blinks against the winter light easing its way through the cracks in the curtains and waits for his brain to acclimatise. He’s been dreaming of bones sinking like stones, snapping like branches, amorphous images that are just ominous enough to unsettle him. He keeps his eyes shut for a moment longer, wrinkling his nose and turning his face into the closest soft surface with a small groan in the back of his throat. He can tell it’s light and he doesn’t want it to be yet, as puerile a thought as that is. Then he realises that the sound he’d just put down to the squally gales they were promised on the weather last night is actually someone moving around in the kitchen and he’s suddenly very much awake.

Getting into a sitting position proves more problematic than expected; Kent hasn’t been as stiff for ages and something in his back pops with an insistency that makes him pause to make sure there’s no oncoming fallout. He says nothing—because really, does it compare?—but draws his knees up to his chest and rubs at his closed eyes. The noise continues and Kent, finally, turns his head to look knowing, what he’ll find.

‘Sir?’ he asks, cuffing a hand through his hair with an elbow resting on his knee. 

It comes out as a croak more than anything else and Kent clears his throat once or twice, guiltily, as Chandler glances over his shoulder.

‘Morning,’ he says, his voice smudgy like he’s been asleep.

But of course he has, it’s morning after all, and for some reason that feels like a revelation in Kent’s brain. Everyone sleeps, and yet Chandler’s one of those people who it’s difficult to see in any other way than he usually is. Kent’s seen him in a hundred other guises now but none of them really feel real, and especially not this one. Kent doesn’t even really feel human yet and there Chandler is, looking as if he’s managed to wrangle together more than six hours of continuous sleep for the first time since he came back home, and as if he’s just been reminded that sleep does actually have restorative powers and isn’t just a way of passing the time without feeling it prodding his pain. He looks more like himself and further away from it as well, because he’s not in a suit, and Kent can’t really tell if it’s better or not. It probably is, but he’s not decided on his criteria yet; he’s a bit more distracted than he should be by the flex of Chandler’s good arm.

God, he’s got to get a grip. This is probably what they call a conflict of interest. Hell, it is. He knows it is. (Shit.) 

Nevertheless, Kent rests his chin on the back of the sofa, watching as Chandler moves slowly around the kitchen, going through the motions of making coffee. He proved to himself long ago that he’s not a good man; might as well live up to it.He might be hindered by his arm but there's still something graceful about him, something careful; Kent would have probably given up ages ago and just started chucking things about.

'I didn't wake you, did I?' he ventures as Chandler picks out a mug, nodding as he motions with a second.

Chandler shakes his head. 'There's only so much lying in bed someone can do.'

'I suppose that's true. It's just that I've been known to talk in my sleep. If prompted.' Kent huffs out a little laugh.

'That must have been it, then.'

'What?' Kent sits up a little straighter then, his brain rushing in that way it does when a shock’s been delivered to someone who's not really been paying attention. 'What did I say?'

'Nothing, really. I said good morning, then all you did was mumble.' Chandler smiles gently, for a moment, while Kent tries to muffle his sigh of relief in the cushions. 'There was something that sounded a bit like “Don’t waste the science,” at one point, but that didn’t sound like you.'

Kent's surprised to find that actually, he's right. That doesn't sound like him, but it's easy enough to put it down to the documentary he caught the last twenty minutes of last night. Either way, Kent grins and reaches for a his discarded jumper, shaking it out of where it's folded neatly against the top zip of his overnight bag, and pulls it on over his head as he gets to his feet. His arm gets caught, at bit, but he manages well enough that the wool’s out of his eyes by the time he's reaching for the proffered drink.

'You all right?' he asks, blowing on the liquid's surface.

Chandler does that look he's adopted for when he wants to shrug. 'It's not so much pain, anymore, but... ache. Stiffness. It doesn't help that I can still feel the bone moving around.'

'At least it's not sticking out your skin at funny angles.'

Kent murmurs it into the rim of the mug, but Chandler gives a snort like a restive horse and it's so _casual_ for him that Kent actually stops to watch through lowered lashes. He accidentally catches Chandler’s eye and drops his gaze, but he just ends up studying Chandler’s shoulder and that’s no better, so he clears his throat and leans against the counter.

'It's both worse and better in the mornings,’ Chandler says eventually, his tone pensive as he raises his own drink to his mouth. ‘The weather doesn’t help, either.’

The season’s well and truly turned. Rain patters against the windows now but Kent had woken briefly and blearily in the early hours to the water battering the glass. He hadn’t paid it much heed, just pulled the borrowed duvet until it covered the nape of his neck and settled back to sleep again. He’s slept through much worse, after all, and he never takes days off for granted. But he knows Chandler’s susceptible to headaches—he’s seen him cradling his head in his office after a long day, after all, and overheard him fobbing Miles off with some vague murmured excuse to do with changes in pressure—and he wouldn’t be surprised if that means that he’s more sensitive when it comes to wounds, too.

It’s not an entirely foreign concept to him. Kent knows what the cold can usher in: ache, stiffness, a long-forgotten pain, a new sharp jolt. He has a strange urge to bundle Chandler in something warm and soft, one of the knits he’d glimpsed the one time he’d been in this flat on his own, but he reins himself in.

Not all the way though, because he still asks, ‘Is the bruising any better?’ as if it’s any of his business.

‘Depends what you mean by better.’ Chandler flicks his eyes towards the skin, once bruised the colour of raw meat but now something sickly and jaundiced. ‘I never realised how much blood there is in bones.’

Kent’s been trying not to look. He hadn’t had much of a chance, not like those first few days, but occasionally Chandler’s shirt will slip, or get caught between him and the furniture, and it’s a testament to how much pain he must be in even when still that he doesn’t move to adjust it. But each glimpse has offered a similar view, of skin mottled green and blue, purple and magenta. Kent can’t see the worst—that’s further along the shoulder, tucked away safely and neatly under the white seams, but he doesn’t need to see that again. It was bad enough the first and only time, and the memory brings twinges to his thigh, phantom aches in cuts that have long healed the best they can.

‘It’s not green anymore, though,’ Chandler says, although his face turns a little repulsed. ‘That’s comforting, at the very least.’

‘Yellow’s not that much better.’

Kent’s half-hidden smile emerges a little more firmly on his face when Chandler does that silent smile-laugh at him, but he can’t help pressing a hand to the small of his back as a pain shoots through the muscle. He must have twisted the wrong way, or something; he knows too well that all it takes is one degree too far. It passes, and it’s nothing that an ibuprofen won’t fix, but Chandler still looks as if he’s culpable when Kent catches his eye again.

‘It’s fine,’ he says, because he always wants that hangdog look to leave Chandler’s face alone.

Chandler narrows his mouth but doesn’t argue—they’ve had the conversation about the sofa enough times for him to know that Kent’s taken his position (quite literally) and isn’t budging.

‘Maybe I should turn the office back into a second bedroom,’ he muses instead, more to the top of his tea than to anyone else. ‘It’s not getting much use as is.’

‘You’re all right, I’m not staying,’ Kent says, quickly, trying not to sound flustered.

Actually, he is, and he’s painfully aware of that fact, but they both know what he means. Disappointment lodges uncomfortably in Kent’s throat, and he can’t shift it with the tea even though it’s unfounded. Or, maybe it isn’t, if he practices being honest with himself. He hasn’t moved in. That was never the plan. _There’s no loss here,_ he thinks hard, trying to convince himself. _Nothing taken, nothing gained._

Even if he was being literal, then the timing’s all wrong. Chandler’s better, yes, but he’s not going to be lugging furniture around, and Kent can feel in his bones that he’s coming to the end of the line here. There aren’t many more excuses he can trot out for why he’s still here, stood sharing coffee in Chandler’s kitchen in the last couple of hours of Saturday morning. He’s been making fewer references to Chandler’s recovery—or, really, how much he knows about it—and now Riley fixes him with a quizzical expression when she actually has to prompt an update. 

He hasn’t started to feel like an imposition. The opposite, really, and that’s what’s unnerving. He can’t stay and he shouldn’t want to, that’s the crux of it. It doesn’t help that sometimes—just sometimes, when the sun’s slipped beneath the horizon but there’s still a tinge of colour to the sky and the surrounding buildings aren’t mosaics of distant fluorescent light but glinting rose and vermilion, and only in a very distant way, like a memory he’s not sure he’s ever really had—that Chandler would be a bit reluctant to see him go, too.

Kent feels a little like a spirit leaving behind a familiar haunt, but one on which he’d made no impression; which, all in all, is what he’d promised. So, no harm, no foul, apparently. 

He’s always known he’s walking a fine line, harbouring his feelings like this. One day he’ll trip or step on loose ground and into the abyss he’ll go, there’s no doubt about that. The funny thing is that, more and more, it’s feeling like it won’t be some sort of implosive revelation that gets him in the end. It’ll be nothing, nonexistence; that nothing will happen and they’ll all slip out of each other’s lives somehow. He’ll be a heart turned to salt. Best begin the tactical retreat as early as possible, then, for as lovely as the view is, there’s no point inching ever closer to the edge.

‘Are you on duty today?’ Chandler asks, changing the subject as he tentatively shifts the affected shoulder.

Kent shakes his head. ‘No, we’re at the bottom of the roster.’

Chandler hums just as Kent wants to wince about his use of ‘we’. For a collective pronoun it’s rather effective at exclusion, because Chandler used to be part of it, and somehow he’s not at the moment. Though Kent had wondered, when Miles had said. They really should be at the first ones called in, seeing as they have neither active cases nor court appearances on their hands. The whole thing whispers of some higher involvement—namely, the Commander and his predilection for silent, altruistic meddling—but the more Kent had wondered about it on the way back to Chandler’s the more he realised that if that was true then he must know about their arrangement and he’d been in no way ready to give that thought the time of day.

‘Probably for the best, anyway,’ Kent says, driving the notion away as it arrives anew, for he’s still incapable of wondering if this means that the Commander approves. ‘Hannah’ll probably want to guilt me into buying her a coffee.’

‘Hannah?’

Chandler’s prompting is accompanied by a frown and Kent’s stomach lurches in the all-too-familiar way it does when he’s tried to avoid stepping in one trap only to fall, bodily, into another.

He clear his throat and explains. ‘My flatmate.’ 

‘Oh.’

‘We aren’t—‘ Kent waves a hand between himself and nothing in particular, searching for words. ‘We’ve never.’

He doesn’t really know why he’s saying it. It’s as if some latent part of his mind, the bit he’s tried and tried and tried to beat into submission but never quite manages to completely subdue, just has to keep emphasizing just how available he is. It doesn’t matter what the higher functions of his brain say—that he’s not, he’s really not, that availability has less to do with a lack of previous attachment than it does with how capable he is of coping—the reaction’s like a sleep kick.

‘She knows me too well for that.’

She’d probably kill herself laughing over the mere suggestion, actually. She’s a frank person to anyone she meets, and that can be bad enough, but she pulls out all the stops when it comes to her friends. The length of their acquaintance is both an asset and a detriment—she’d cackle and shake her head and say no one’s had a look in for years, let alone her; that she might be blonde but she’s not a six-foot-tall detective inspector. And even if she was (that’s an odd thought), she still wouldn’t be Chandler.

Chandler smiles vaguely, as if he knows the words are supposed to be a joke but he doesn’t know why it’s funny. Kent crooks a smile back, half-hidden behind the last of his drink, because he’s dug himself into a hole and he’s not sure there’s any other way to get out.

Speaking of, he probably should get out today. Things need doing. Not that Chandler would be happy with that as reasoning (needless obscurity is one of the few areas where he and Miles have always been on the same page, even when everything else was a cause to butt heads) but it’s not untrue.

His phone rings, trilling from across the room. Kent tuts and checks his watch—at this stage of the morning it’s got to be Hannah, needling him at the usual time. Normally he’d send back something sarky—perhaps even just the boar emoji, she likes that one for some unknown reason—but she’s actually being useful for once. She’ll get a kick out of that.

‘Is that her, by any chance?’

Chandler asks the question in the overly polite manner of someone unused to entering into such realms; Kent shrugs and puts his mug aside, moving to fetch the mobile. 

‘Yeah, probably. She’s got to get her daily abuse in.’

Again, Chandler looks politely bemused and Kent reckons now is probably not the time to explain Hannah’s sense of humour to him. Instead he takes another conspicuous look at his watch as he unlocks the phone and attempts a jovial smile.

‘She’s early, actually,’ he says, catching Chandler’s eye and scratching up the courage to hold it. ‘Probably thinks she has to get going quickly to make up for the lot I usually get at the station.’ 

Any other situation and Chandler may have cried insubordination or undue levity at that; now he quirks half a smile that only just overtakes a second’s worth of another expression, one that Kent’s seen in him a thousand times before but never for this. Disappointment isn’t a foreign feeling between them, but it’s usually on Kent’s side. He doesn’t know what to do with himself now he’s recognised his look on Chandler’s face, and he downs the dregs of his coffee, the lukewarm liquid difficult to swallow without grimacing and a more than effective distraction.

*

Kent’s just about to duck into a Tube station when his mobile goes. He sighs, put-upon and overdone in that way that Londoners adopt to let everyone around them know that they know they’re being a nuisance but it’s through no fault of their own, and has to side-step out of the way of the people behind him as they walk undeterred towards the barriers while he digs his phone out of his pocket with his back against the wall. If it’s Hannah or any of that lot then he’ll just ignore it and send a text when he can, because he’s got things to do and he’ll seem them later, but it’s none of their names on the screen. It’s Miles, and they aren’t in the habit of just ringing up for a natter. He puts down the way his heart lurches to the service update announcement taking him by surprise. 

’Skip?’ 

‘I’ve just had the boss on the phone.’

Kent swallows; that doesn’t make him feel any better. Except Miles doesn’t sound as if anything’s happened, and if Kent’s hearing right then that’s his kids in the background, so even though Chandler’s name’s come up this isn’t about work. No one’s called each other boss yet. Kent frowns at a half-crumpled crisp packet as it wafts along on the breeze, dragged along the pavement against its will.

‘And?’

‘What’s all this about him coming back into work on Monday?’ Miles sounds a little annoyed now, like they’ve somehow interrupted his weekend plans and he’s nowhere near as used to it as he actually is. ‘You’re an idiot for letting him, you know.’

‘I didn’t— It’s not my—’ Kent struggles with what to say first. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’

(He’s not sure how he feels about it, actually, but he’s not the one who has to make the decision. It’s not his place.)

‘He sounded rather certain.’

‘If he’s that desperate to get in on this paperwork thing we’ve got going on, then he’s welcome to it,’ Kent says, trying to make this discussion feel normal. He should not be having a conversation about Chandler with Miles that’s taken on a tone that seems to imply that he’s got some input on what happens, or that Chandler should have told him before telling Miles. ‘He’s allowed, technically.’ 

Miles makes a dismissive sound. ‘Technically, he’s allowed to sign up for extreme sports, but it’s not a good idea.’

‘The boss? Extreme sports?’ It’s so ridiculous that Kent wants to laugh.

‘First thing that popped into m’head,’ Miles mutters, and for a moment he holds the phone away to say something to someone else in the room. Liam, if Kent’s memory serves him right. The voice might be familiar but he can’t decipher the words over the noise on his end, the mass of steps and shouts and traffic.

He switches hands, holding his mobile to the opposite ear, and accidentally elbows a harried-looking girl in the process. He holds out a hand in apology but she doesn’t even turn, so his expression isn’t caught. He doesn’t have much of a chance to be annoyed before Miles is back to grumbling in his ear.

‘You’ve seen him more than the rest of us. What d’you reckon?’

‘Don’t ask me that, skip.’

There are too many potential pitfalls in that question. Either he’d say something far too telling and it’d just set Miles off again on the offensive, dropping hints left and right until Kent spends the entirety of every shift on the lookout for the one that really lands them in it, or he’ll say something now that’s too flippant for anyone’s good and they’ll expect Chandler back, spick and span, on Monday morning. He’ll be back, all right—if he’s decided, then he’s decided, that’s that—but he probably won’t be entirely the same, and Kent’s not sure if he’s the only one that remembers the little speech he’d given them before Miles had come back. They can’t give him a good ribbing and expect him to snap straight back.

But this strange strain of protectiveness is ridiculous, because Chandler can hold his own and he’s proved that a thousand times over, and Kent’s the last one of them who could do anything about it.

‘It has been near enough three weeks,’ Kent says in the end, admitting some sort of defeat (but to whom or what, he’s not sure.) 

‘From what I’ve read, that means he’s only just about back in his right mind.’

‘And from what I’ve read, it’s the threshold between week three and week four that’s the biggest decrease in pain, so…’

Kent trails off; he doesn’t particularly want to get into that argument while he’s stood on a street corner.

‘He has said he’s feeling better. He looks better,’ Kent says instead, and he reflexively waits for the derisive snort and a comment along the lines of _Trust you to be looking_ but none comes. ‘He must be bored by now, skip, you can’t blame him.’

‘Of course I can. I can blame you, an’ all.’

Kent peers at a nearby lamppost just to stop himself from having to stand there aghast for all to see. ‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘Yeah, precisely.’ Miles affects a long-suffering tone; it’s not the first time they’ve heard that excuse. ‘Talk some sense into him. He should be used to listening to you by now.’

‘I’m not his keeper,’ Kent says, exasperated, as somebody else shoots him a look as they pass. ‘I don’t tell him what to do. He makes his own decisions.’

Miles makes a low sound into the phone. ‘Don’t I bloody know it.’  

Kent huffs, and it should be a reflection of his continuing annoyance at Miles’ seemingly infinite capability to extend this argument, but at least half of it isn’t. The problem is that Chandler’s decisions… well, they aren’t bad ones, not strictly speaking. He probably would think of them that way, actually, but that’s almost beside the point. The only thing is that he still doesn’t seem to realise that it’s not just himself he’s risking when he sticks his neck out. Sure, it’s his skull, his lungs, his brain—but all their hearts had been still in their throats when he’d walked out with his hands up. Kent rubs his free hand against the hinge of his jaw; his chilled fingers are as cold as the thought.

He’s just about to say that anything that’ll happen next really isn’t on the same level as that—because of course they’re thinking of the same thing, they have to be—but Miles interrupts before he has the chance.

‘It’s not like the job’s just putting numbers in a spreadsheet.’

‘I’m sure we could find him one.’ Digitisation’s just another name for data input, in Kent’s experience. ‘And if not, Ed’s been hankering after an assistant for years.’

‘Yeah, somehow I can’t see him being happy with that.’

‘You never know, skip.’ Kent can’t help but think of all the books on Chandler’s shelves; Ed would probably hand over an arm or a leg for a couple of them. There’s a reason Chandler’s the one who set them up with a basement archivist.

‘Anyway, he’s more likely to put his back out doing that than he is chasing down villains,’ Miles continues, though the deep skepticism that used to pervade all his comments about Ed’s lair eased long ago.

But, of course, that doesn’t mean that the point’s not valid. Kent still can’t quite believe the amount of stuff Ed’s managed to get in there, and having ferried a lot of it down himself he can attest to the box-buckling weight of some of those files. At least putting up the whiteboards or conducting interviews don’t include heavy lifting.

‘I’m sure that Mansell wouldn’t mind handing over his lot of paperwork.’

An incredulous laugh escapes Miles. ‘You’re giving Mansell a way to do less work?’

’Not really,’ Kent says. He knows he’s digging a hole for himself here, or maybe he has been for a while, but hopefully he can still claw his way out of it. ‘It’s just if we switch his workload then we probably wouldn’t lose any productivity.’

Miles can probably tell that he’s put too much thought into this. Kent can tell just from the quality of his silence—it almost expects him to confess to it, compels him, so he narrows his mouth and refuses. Miles waits, because that’s what he does and it usually works, and after a few moments Kent has to say something—anything—to reroute whatever this is.

‘D’you reckon the Commander would have anything to say about it?’

‘Probably,’ Miles counters, ‘but he won’t.’

Kent’s heard enough snippets about what went on after the end of the Brookes case to know what Miles’ cautionary tone means. They may not have the direct help from the man they used to have, but they do have the occasional phone call, and they have the advantage of a blind eye. Not for everything—they aren’t that crooked—but they still have a bit of sway. It’s probably part of the reason they haven’t had another DI assigned for the duration. They might not get perks like covert reassignments to Arts and Antiques anymore, but they aren’t completely on their own.

He’s never been sure whether or not that’s a good thing, but that’s his father’s suspicion coming out in him and he knows where that gets him.

‘You know you’re not going to be able to do anything about this, right?’ Kent asks, as much for his own piece of mind as for setting the record straight.

Miles makes a disgruntled sound that’s probably the closest to assent Kent’s going to get. The pressing question, therefore, is why did he call at all? But he knows better than to ask. He’s not prepared to hear about all the convoluted reasoning that Miles used to get here. Once a copper, always a copper, and it’s difficult to turn off the parts of their brains that put two and two together. He doesn’t need his sergeant to say, ‘I thought you might be able to,’ when they both know he’s already got there himself.

‘So, Monday then, skip?’

‘Yeah, I suppose. The both of you.’

Kent makes a sound. There’s no way to describe it and neither of them comment on it, either, unless Miles terminating the call as soon as possible might be construed as a reaction. Kent’s still trying to understand how he managed to sound that self-consciously nonchalant while simultaneously strangling himself as he draws the mobile away from his ear and watches the call screen fade back to his contact list.

He glances back up towards the street, the never-ending stream of people not in the mood for some bloke to be half blocking their way to the trains, and finds that he’s not sure where he’s planning on going anymore. He’s completely forgotten where he was supposed to be heading, actually, so he shoves the mobile back into the first pocket he comes across on his jeans and moves out of the way. The least he can do is not be a nuisance, and that’s about as far as his brain can get at the moment; he manages to cross the road without sustaining injury and duck into one of the small squares masquerading as a park. It’s no quieter—in fact, a squealing police car chooses that moment to careen past—but it’ll do. It isn’t as if his mind’s been quiet at all lately. A bit of London’s background noise isn’t going to change a thing now.

God knows what he’s trying to achieve in escaping to a grassy patch of nothing. To think, presumably, but he could just as easily do that in a Tube car. Not that it matters, now, as he parks himself on a bench and rests his head against his hands, the phone he’d put away somehow back in his hand and pressing against the curve of his forehead. He’s vaguely aware that this is the wrong—or at least disproportionate—reaction, but he’s been having those all day and now seems as good a time as any to sit down and sort his mind out with no Chandler, no Hannah, no Miles, no Mansell and no Riley.

Erica… well, Erica knows a thing or two about his mind that the others don’t. He’d found himself at her doorstep earlier on and by some stroke of luck found her in on her own. Eli had swatted at his ankles as she placed a cup of tea in front of him and somehow managed to manoeuvre herself into sitting cross-legged in a dining chair; Kent ignored it the best he could and tried to think of the words that best described why he was there.

He doesn’t say that he wants desperately to be spending today sat with Chandler in his front room, asking about his brother and his poetry and his first year on the force; he doesn’t tell her that he’d happily answer Chandler’s questions about him, that he’d lay out all his secrets for good or for ill. He doesn’t say that he hadn’t wanted to go, not really, and he’d invented the agreement with Hannah only because he’d needed some faux accountability and she’d corroborate. But he eventually murmurs something that says as much, because he always does. Because it’s Erica. Because her bloody cat is weaving figure eights around his legs and he’s in the sort of mood to take it as an apology.

She’s never asked _How many years have you wasted playing star-crossed lovers with this bloke?_ or told him to just get over it and move on. Maybe she wants to but she can’t, because she knows, she must feel it; why else would she have pulled him back by the wrist when he tried to leave and pressed him to her with a strength that betrays her. She should have hissed at him, told him that he didn’t have any problems other than the ones he makes for himself. That’s probably what he needs. But no, she’d rubbed a hand up and down his spine just like their mum used to, and murmured ‘It’ll be all right, you know. In the end. It’ll all be okay.’

Maybe she knows something he doesn’t. 

(It wouldn’t be the first time.)

Kent glances at his watch and finds that it’s already later than he thought; he illuminates his phone’s screen again, and stares at it for a moment longer, as if expecting someone else to have some words for him (things always come in threes, after all). The screen fades, uninterrupted, and he replaces it in a safer pocket before getting to his feet and reapproaching the road. 

He waits for a moment or two at the zebra crossing, holding a hand up in thanks as a taxi slows to let him cross. A phantom vibration runs through his pocket, seemingly all through the lining of his coat, but he knows it’s his mind playing tricks on him. No matter now tempted he is to stop and check, just once more, he steps up onto the opposite kerb without going for his mobile. Even if it is something, it can wait.

There are, as it turns out, things to be done, so Kent ignores the leaflet for God-knows-what shoved in his face at the last moment and jogs down the stairs towards the ticket gates.

_*_

He still knocks twice, sharp enough for his knuckle to smart, before sliding the key into the lock. It just seems polite, somehow, like tapping on the open door of an office even though the occupant probably already knows you’re there. Chandler doesn’t look up often in those situations, either, but the fact he doesn’t turn to watch Kent twist the locks shut behind him still has probably more to do with his shoulder. Especially given that it’s the end of the day and although Chandler’s not the type to complain, Kent can spot the signs.

‘Evening,’ Chandler says, pleasantly enough, and there’s a rustling that betrays the fact that a page is being turned. 

Kent hangs up his coat and walks a little further into the room and peers over Chandler’s shoulder, spying the case files from Ed’s shelves on his lap. He’s familiar enough with their contents by now—they’ve read over them a couple of times, on late evenings, when Kent suspects Chandler misses feeling proactive and would investigate anything—but he doesn’t immediately recognise the photocopy of an aging newspaper cutting. He gets as far as realizing that the typeface betrays a nineteenth-century birth before he’s distracted, guiltily, by the splay of Chandler’s fingers where he’s rested his good hand against the edge of the page.

He looks away and inhales, choosing his approach.

‘Miles rang me.’

Chandler turns to look at him like he knows exactly what that call was about, and that he’s going to have a few things to say about it when he next has the chance. Kent probably should say something first—that they do it because Chandler’s only really got an incidental sense of self-preservation and someone has to keep an eye on him—but he doesn’t. He’s said that enough over the past few weeks. It really should have got through his apparently thick skull by now.

‘You’re keen to fill in forms.’

Chandler makes a little _tsk_ noise with his tongue on the top of his mouth. ‘Desk duty’s better than doing this.’ 

Kent begs to differ. Maybe it’s a little fresher in his mind than Chandler’s. Or maybe it’s just never been his thing. Either way it doesn’t matter, those are just symptoms of Kent’s immense ability to distract himself from what he’s really trying to say. He’s never been as good as Miles at just telling it like it is. He’s got some sort of compulsion to beat around the bush. 

‘I can’t tell you what to do, sir,’ he says, obscuring his face by pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘But are you sure?’

‘There’s more to life than rank, Kent.’

The words make Kent pause, for a moment, then the way they’d been sighed out of Chandler’s lungs makes him think for another. It doesn’t actually follow anything Kent’s said—at least, he doesn’t think it does. If anything, it goes in the opposite direction. Something cool and uncomfortable settles against Kent’s spine as he wonders if Chandler thinks he’s implying that he’s rushing back for the sole reason of maintaining position. But he has to know better than that—he has to know that Kent’s been the one who always pushed back against the ones who kept saying that about Chandler, at first. Maybe that’s what he means, maybe that’s when he learnt: that first year with them, when he put aside the lost promises of Head Desk and stayed on as their DI, forever on the first rung out of the graduate fast track.

None of those thoughts are a conclusion, and Kent shakes his head once to pitch the mess of ideas away as he sits down.

‘Sorry, what?’

He often loses his place when he’s arguing with Chandler, forgets where he is—not that this is an argument, strictly speaking. He doesn’t want it to be. He doesn’t want to argue. (Sometimes he has to remind himself of that.)

Chandler half-smiles suddenly, like he’s forgotten as well. ‘You’ve been telling me what to do for a while now.’

Kent flushes at the insinuation; he runs a hand over his knee—once, twice, as if the scrape of denim will make him forget that curved mouth—and traces his thumb over the soft, well-worn seam.

‘You haven’t done anything you haven’t wanted to,’ Kent says eventually, his voice a little less hard than it had been before. He hadn’t realised he’d gone that way. ‘And if you don’t want to take any more time off then I won’t make you. I can’t make you.’

That’s an understatement: he wouldn’t even try very hard to dissuade him. He’s there and talking about it, obviously, but as he’d said to Miles, he knows there’s nothing either of them can do. If there’s anything that Chandler’s always been, since day one and the early clashes, it’s stubborn. He’s given in on some things, acquiesced, but it’s been more or less on his terms. Kent sitting here and saying that he’s worried isn’t going to change anything. Especially since he can’t even bring himself to say it aloud.

He pulls a sleeve down over his hand until the hem skims his knuckles and half-shrugs, looking intently at the glinting glass edge of a side table. ‘I wouldn’t want to do that anyway, sir.’

Chandler’s face acquires a tiny frown; Kent notices only out of the corner of his eye, but it still makes him flush uncomfortably hot. It’s almost as if they both can tell that’s not entirely true: he’d rather make sure Chandler was a hundred percent better, his bone back in one piece, the muscle restrengthened, before he brought him back into the fray. That’s what it is, their patch—there’s never anything benign on their to-do list. But a full recovery is on the scale of months, and there’s a difference between being physically healed and going out of your mind with boredom. Kent knows that, and realises that his gut instinct isn’t always in anyone’s best interest.

‘But,’ Kent continues, ‘I do want to make sure you think.’

The strange expression on Chandler’s face falls away to something softer; it’s not quite a smile. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Kent. You do.’ 

There’s something reminiscent about his voice, the sudden gentleness. It’s what Kent thinks Chandler would have sounded like, if he’d spoken when Kent had said _I know you will_ instead of laid a hand on his shoulder, lingering like the thrum and echo of sensory memory—but he could be making it up. He doesn’t trust himself not to; the person who’s most likely to lie to him is himself, after all.

‘It’s my job, sir,’ Kent says, shrugging with one shoulder as if that’s not important to him at all.

Chandler hums. It doesn’t feel altogether like agreement.

They sit there, in the quiet, for a moment longer. God knows how long it stretches—Kent can’t tell and he accepted long ago that something happens to the elasticity of time when he’s alone in a room with Chandler—but the air’s thick with contemplation. He extends an offer of a cup of tea out of reflex more than anything else, and perhaps that’s why Chandler nods. It doesn’t really matter, though, because it gives him something to do with his hands as he processes the fact that theirs is avague proximity that makes the skin at the nape of his neck prickle.

When he returns Chandler’s folded the file back into its original state, pristine apart from the one or two cuttings which have to be folded overleaf, and placed it far away from where he carefully arranges his fingers around the proffered mug’s handle. Kent waits, unhurried, until Chandler’s confident in his grip, and he tells himself over and over that the warmth spreading through him is from the liquid and not from how close their fingers are to brushing. He sits a moment later, retaking his usual space. 

Kent’s tapping his free fingertips against his kneecap, trying to shake the phantom closeness, when Chandler takes a breath to speak.

‘You came back,’ he says, laying it out there like they do crime scene photographs. 

‘Yeah.’ Kent can’t deny it. ‘Yeah, I did.’

He probably should tell Chandler all about how that was a bad idea, how he was lower than he thought he was and every blow, friendly and foreign, that had come after had hit harder and sharper. He should tell him about how exhausted he’d felt, all the time; about how lines on forms had blurred together until it was just a page of black, blotchy text; about how after it all he’d spent the weekend curled up in bed, trying to figure out how to carry on without the adrenaline of an active investigation.

But he doesn’t. It’s a shit move on his part, he knows, but Chandler’s got every right to make the same decision that he did and they’re looking at each other now, from either end of the furniture, and for once it’s Chandler who’s waiting for Kent to assure him rather than the other way around. And Kent’s not Miles. He can’t always bring himself to tell the harsh truths.

(Sometimes it’s difficult to tell whether it’s even those that Chandler wants.)

‘Just tell Skip,’ Kent says, eventually, on a sigh, ‘that the doctor told you you’d know when you were feeling better.’

Chandler risks a small disbelieving laugh. ‘He won’t buy that.’

‘It’s true, though.’ Kent blows on the surface of his tea and cocks his head slightly. ‘He might not agree, but it’s true.’

That matters to Miles, Kent knows, because the skipper’s the sort of man who’d have stopped needling him about how he looks at Chandler a long time ago if he didn’t actually do it.

And, for all intents and purposes, Chandler is better. In it’s comparative sense, if nothing else. He’s not healed, and although they don’t often explicitly talk about it Kent knows the bone’s given up on being the most pressing source of pain and it’s the muscle that’s taken over now, with spasm and cramp. According to Kent’s surreptitious googling the bone is probably still soft, barely fused, but it’s another piece of information he really doesn’t know what to do with, so he does nothing except what he’s been doing. It’s all academic, and despite what Ed might argue, that’s not in their line of work.

‘To be honest, sir, I think you’ve done well to last this long.’ Kent’s surprised to find that the words all come out in a rush, almost as a badly-prepared speech would. He stops, swallows and tries to feign nonchalance by studying the edge of his mug.  ‘It’s not much, I know, but… you know.’

Chandler nods and Kent ignores the strange sparks of feeling that scuttle down his spine. It isn’t the first time they’ve agreed on something amorphous, found words without having to know enough about them to say them out loud, but Chandler’s not got the sort of mind that turns away from the prospect of specificity easily and it’s as if he trusts Kent enough to have thought up the right terms.

It’s not much in terms of compliments—well done on sitting there and coping, sir, that’s really an achievement. Then again, that being said, there’s a lot to be said for coping. It’s not easy, it’s not passive, and Kent knows it, yet he still wants to deride the sentiment. Perhaps he hasn’t really sorted his mind out. He probably never will—especially not now, with the half-baked impulses rushing to the forefront just as quickly as the reasoning for why he shouldn’t act on them. One, however, keeps butting its way to the very front, so much so that he wouldn’t have been surprised if it showed through the space between his eyes.

‘Actually, there is one thing.’ Kent oscillates between leaning forward to put his mug down and not, but in the end decides to wrap his fingers around the ceramic and focus on the dull ache of heat against his skin as he forces himself to ask. ‘Would you mind me staying here for the first few nights? Just in case. It’s a change in routine, y’might… I don’t know.’ 

He doesn’t know what exactly he means and he doesn’t really want to try and think of examples, either. Even now, when they’re all so far out of the woods that they can’t see any foliage in the distance. Kent traces an invisible pattern on the mug with the pad of his thumb, suddenly embarrassed. It’s probably the boldest thing he’s done in a few years. More than asking him for that drink, more than asking him round Erica’s. He’s insinuating himself into Chandler’s life, into his home, when he knows Chandler values the peace and quiet, that if he’d wanted a flatmate then he’d have one. Before Kent had just shown up, cited Miles’ instructions as his reasoning. Now he’s just asking and it feels vaguely like exposing his neck, vulnerable, one snap and he’d be gone. One word and he’d be gone. 

Chandler doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t refuse, either, and Kent realises with a jolt that he’s waiting and yeah, he sort of just left that idea out there. He never really finished. He didn’t think he’d get the chance.

‘It’d make me—,’ He catches himself. ‘It’d make Miles feel better. All of us.’

Kent ignores the way he feels as if something’s chewing up his lungs and viscera. He ran out of bluster a long time ago and now he just waits, resists the urge to shrug again and stare into the remnants of his tea, as Chandler presumably mulls it over. He daren’t watch. His face is probably giving enough of him away already, and he’s lost acres of himself to Chandler. Miles would probably just tell him to package up the rest and hand it over with a massive red bow, but that’s just him taking the piss and it probably says something that it’s easier to muse on that than it is to think about the fact Chandler’s actually thinking about the proposal.

‘That’d be…’

The racing train of thoughts grinds to a strained halt and Kent looks up again to find Chandler looking slightly to the left of him. His heart sinks, a little, because it occurs to him in the pause that that’s the exact thing he does when he’s forcing himself to say something that embarrasses him. In fact he’d just done it; this is mirroring, then, at its cruelest.

Kent’s ready to curse himself and his misplaced rushes of bravery when Chandler regathers his thoughts.

‘All right. It’s probably a good idea.’

Kent thinks it’s probably being overcautious, actually, because he’s hyperaware of the small sliver of himself that says he must’ve overstayed any sort of welcome by this point, but he smiles in relief regardless. He looses the grip of his hands around his mug—he hadn’t noticed that he’d tensed, in the interim. Hopefully Chandler hadn’t, either, but there’s no way to be sure and the possibility brings faint pricklings of a flush to the back of Kent’s neck.

He’s used to ignoring the more rational part of himself. The brain’s not always right; the heart’s got a pretty good grasp on the way the world works, too, and Kent knows the exhaustion will hit Chandler harder than he thinks it will, that sitting at a desk filling in forms will make his shoulder ache like it’s been twisted. And if he’s not going to have the decency to tell him now, to lay all the facts out on the table and let him make an informed decision instead of just a decision, then he’s going to fulfill his duty in the only other way he knows how.

‘Sorry to make you put up with me for even longer.’

Kent tries to quirk a smile to go with his words, something self-deprecating that would make the lingering panic leave his throat. It might work, it might not, but it doesn’t seem to matter because Chandler frowns for a split second. As if he disagrees. (Or maybe that’s just Kent painting his own wishes on him; it wouldn’t be the first time he’s filled in the gaps between words with what he’s wanted to hear.)

He stares into the (unfortunately) fathomable depths of his tea as he and Chandler sit through one of those silences that’s made to be broken. It had only been a joke, really (maybe), so there’s no need for Chandler to look quite so concerned. It’d made Kent feel less like he’s sat near an open fire on a warm day if he would stop, in fact, but Chandler doesn’t just let things go.

‘I’m…’ he says, not quite struggling to get the words out. He’s careful, endlessly so, but not exactly tongue-tied. ‘I’m glad it was you.’

Kent coughs away his gratification at hearing those words under the guise of something getting caught in his throat. Chandler sits a little forward before Kent ushers him back down with an extended hand that he quickly has to return to his chest as something does take up residence in his windpipe and he splutters for a moment more.

‘Yeah, well,’ Kent says as he recovers, feeling very much as if he’s down to his last thin, fraying layer of defence. ‘You wouldn’t get much peace with any of the others.’

Chandler does smile then, but only for a moment, because it slips away into something vaguely guilty. He’s never quite got the hang of being as absolutely horrible to them as they are with each other; nevertheless, he must know what Kent means.

He gestures with his mug of tea, quirking a smile. ‘And I’m the only one who’s managed to grasp how you take your tea.’

*

Kent wakes early the next morning, but not early enough. He’s not entirely convinced that Chandler’s slept at all, not even as they’re avoiding bumping into each other in the kitchen in pursuit of tea and toast, but he doesn’t say anything about it. There’s a tension in Chandler’s jaw that’s different than the strain that comes with a sudden wave of pain. No, now it’s nothing so basely biological; he’s apprehensive. Nervous. First-day nerves, Kent’d say, if anyone had come up to him and asked for a diagnosis.

No one does, but it doesn’t make it any less true. He places a cup of tea in front of Chandler without a word, smiling faintly and with eyes quick to become downcast as Chandler bestows a grateful look upon him. He looks a little like he had those first few days—almost painfully neat, desperate for God-knows-what, equal parts anxious and enthusiastic—only now he’s softer around the edges, familiar even with the slight changes five years has wrought on them all.

He’s been settled in the comfortable middle ground between his arriving state and the way he’d been at the tail end of the Ripper case—Kent’s never seen him so rumpled as he’d been when he’d reported the medical transport van before or since—and he’s almost back to that now. Still not exactly himself, but that’s impossible for anyone trying to manoeuver with one arm less than usual. The important thing is that despite all of Kent’s suspicions, Chandler doesn’t look like he’s been up fretting all night. Kent daren’t think the same of himself. His nose might shoot out a foot if he tells himself another lie.

Maybe that’s why he stops trying to kid himself that he doesn’t take every available opportunity to look at Chandler. He’s still not brave enough to do it like Mansell does (or, did, before Erica): brazen, bawdy, ready to change into something that says come hither when the object inevitably catches him at it. No, Kent’s never been bold enough for that—except maybe once, when he’d been very, very drunk, and that had been a fool’s errand.

Watching Chandler out of the corner of his eye is safe and familiar territory, as glancing quickly to nothing in particular when it looks like he might be discovered. Except this morning Kent is free to look, more or less, as Chandler is increasingly occupied with the conundrum of tying a tie with only one hand free to do it with. The silk hangs looped around his neck, a line of burgundy red that stands out so starkly against his shirt that makes Kent do a startled double-take before he realises what it is. Kent can tell Chandler’s shooting the thing furtive glances without actually having to see his eyes; there’s something in the slope of his shoulders that resonates with the feeling in the pit of Kent’s stomach that he’s tried so hard to forget.

‘It’d be quicker if you let me do that,’ Kent says from the other end of the kitchen.

He only murmurs it—half-hopes that Chandler doesn’t hear him, actually—but he turns around instead. Chandler blinks owlishly and Kent’s eyes flitter away. He’s basically just admitted he’s been looking, hasn’t he? For a man who takes so much pride in his appearance, Chandler’s surprisingly ignorant of why people’s eyes linger on him. He even looks a little confused now, stood in his own kitchen, weighing up the suggestion.

Kent shrugs, acknowledging the acknowledgement, and returns to hiding behind his mug. 

‘You’re probably right,’ Chandler says, turning and abandoning his efforts in a manner that, instead of looking like defeat, looks like an offering.

Kent gulps; he hadn’t really intended that to work. It takes a moment for him to remember how to work his legs, leaving his feet rooted to the spot, but he does move eventually, egged on by the last, battered brave part of him. He puts down his tea en route, by the edge of the sink, probably close enough for it to topple in if someone so much as walked too quickly near it, but Kent doesn’t really have the brainspace to worry about that when he’s raising his hands to take Chandler’s abandoned tie between his fingers.

Despite his terrible track record, Kent decides on a last ditch attempt at humour. ‘More difficult than you’d think?’

Chandler smiles—Kent doesn’t have to be looking directly at it to know. ‘Apparently so.’

Kent half-longs for silence as he goes through the motions—listening to him and Chandler breathe is distracting enough without the need for fine motor skills.

‘Anyway,’ he says, breaking both the silence and the far-too-telling habit of pressing his canine into his lower lip, an indicator of adolescent concentration and one or two other things, ‘You’re the one who insisted on ties, sir.’

‘You have to admit that something needed to be done.’

Kent chuckles and tries to ignore how his fingers suddenly seem like someone else’s. ‘Yeah. You whipped us into shape pretty quickly.’

He doesn’t mention that it was more than a DI had done for them in years; the others had taken one look at them and given up. They hadn’t been told they’d be in charge of such a raggedy bunch. Not that they weren’t good—because they were, even then, they had a decent clean-up record. The lot of them just didn’t really align with whatever they’d been teaching up at Hendon about twenty-first century policing, slick and precise. Miles hadn’t helped. And he’d gone harder than usual against Chandler, because not only had he been one of the usual bunch, he _hadn’t_ been one of the usual bunch. Not quite. He’d been both more and less at the same time, a walking conundrum.

(That’s not changed.) 

‘You all took the piss.’

‘Yeah, did y’expect us not to? Miles was in charge. It’s what he _does_.’

Chandler tilts his head to one side ever so slightly; that’s as much an admission as any. Kent sneaks in a tiny smile, one that’s a little too familiar for this situation. He should have a straight face at any and all times he’s stood close enough to Chandler that it wouldn’t take much at all to make it so there’s no space between them. 

‘What matters is that it stuck,’ he says, soothing the possibility of hurt as he straightens Chandler’s collar and tries not to blush harder than he already is. ‘Even if you have inadvertently made it more difficult for yourself.’

‘I do that.’ 

Kent doesn’t smile, but he does something with his mouth that feels as if it expresses the strange shifting in his chest that always happens when Chandler speaks like that. Not only in the way that makes him sound like his own worst critic, his own disappointed parent, but as if admitting it is heaving a weight off his shoulders that he can’t hand to anyone else so he holds on to it, cradling it against his chest like he doesn’t know how to do anything else. Kent would offer to take some of the weight for him—he might even be able to convince himself it’s part of the job to do so, really—but he wouldn’t know what to do with any of it either.

That’s one of the cruel things about humanity—no one knows what they’re doing, yet no one admits it. As much as Kent would love to be able to look up at Chandler now and say that he knew how to help, it won’t happen. Because he doesn’t. He could give it a good try, but that would probably involve a few fuck-ups and they don’t really have time for any more of those. 

So, instead, Kent smiles with as much encouragement as he can muster and says, ‘Come on, they’ll be glad to see you.’

‘I’ve got a meeting with the Chief Superintendent first.’

‘Right.’ Protocol always shoulders its way into their comfortable warmth, doesn’t it? Kent returns to his tea and surveys Chandler from the safe position behind the rim of his mug. ‘Good luck.’

Chandler frowns, a slight expression that’s his own brand of polite confusion. ‘It’s not a test.’

‘Still, though. It’s the Chief Super.’ Kent shrugs, and holds Chandler’s gaze for a beat longer than he’d have dared to a fortnight ago. ‘Might as well have some, sir.’

He murmurs a bemused ‘Thanks,’ as if he knows there’s not much luck in the coffers to go around.

_*_

Kent arrives and feels distinctly Chandler-less as he makes his way into the incident room, peeling his coat from his shoulders before he really has a proper look round.  He tries to ignore how easy it was for him to walk away from the man in the car park and miss him— _miss him_ , for God's sake, when they'll be in the same room again in less than an hour. It shouldn't be that easy. It never was, before. Everything was safer when it was hero worship. Except it wasn’t, because there’s nothing safe about standing on a precipice.

Mansell's sat as his desk, poring over that morning's Metro. God knows why he's on time—he's somehow managed to not amble in late, for once, but it does happen every once in a while. He likes to keep them on their toes. Except now he's frowning at the page of missed connections, folding the page back until it's about the size of a paperback.

'Looking for someone?' Riley asks, peering over from her own desk. 

'Do these things actually ever work?' Mansell says in lieu of an answer, getting up and walking over to her. He points one in particular out. ‘That can’t be genuine. I mean, surely there’s a drug deal going on there.' 

Riley looks as if she's just going to tell him to lay off it, except some for some reason she actually reads it and an expression of a grudging acquiescence crawls across her face.

'I hate to say it, but, that _can't_ be serious--' 

‘You lot have a very precarious grasp on what police work is,’ Miles grumbles as he reappears at the threshold of the incident room with a tray of coffees. ‘And anyway, how do you know how the young’uns talk to each other nowadays? Even Kent’s lost touch with that world now.’ 

’Ta, skip,’ Kent says, half-sarcastic and half-sincere, as he accepts one of the cardboard cups. 

‘You are getting on a bit now,’ Mansell supplies.

‘Watch it,’ Kent warns, voice stern. ‘You forget that Erica and I share a birthday. I doubt she’d be as forgiving as I am.’

Mansell’s face falls and it’s quite dramatic, actually, that reaction. So much so that Kent’s tempted to smile—not that strange, half-sordid grin that he’d felt against his teeth too many times in the past year. No, an actual smile, one of the ones that used to foretell his telling Erica about whatever had caused it later so they can both have a laugh. It’s the same feeling that you get when you spot a familiar face in the crowd, or when you turn down your street after a long time away from home, and it’s such a mollifying thought that Kent hides behind his coffee and retreats to his desk. 

Riley, on the other hand, just cackles. ‘He’s got you there.’

Mansell’s got the good sense to look sheepish, but he recovers quickly. He returns his quizzical gaze to the newspaper and tuts once, shaking his head. 

‘Either way, I don’t trust this Girl in Ripped Tights character.’

‘I think you mean—’ Miles interrupts as he pushes past him towards the whiteboards. ‘—that either way, that’s not the case we’re concerned with at the moment.’

The rest of them perk up as Riley asks, ‘Case?’ with a mixture of surprise and delirium, as if experiencing a sudden reanimation from a particularly deep hibernation.

Miles takes a deep breath, as if he’s about to launch into the basic background of an incident that needs looking at, but in the end he deflates and says, ‘All right, fine, not quite a case.’

Kent can’t decide if the rush of feeling he gets is regret or relief. Then again, he hasn’t been able to pin down any of his emotions recently, so he lets it wash over him without analysis.

Riley takes the opposite approach. ‘Why am I getting a sinking feeling about your face, skip?’

Mansell snorts. ‘I always get a sinking feeling about his face.’

Miles glowers in Mansell’s direction, but probably only because he has to maintain the pretense of keeping them in line.

‘Because,’ he continues, ‘the Chief Super’s got some sort of PR stunt scheduled for this afternoon and this place has to be spotless.’

‘Oh, brilliant,’ Mansell says, overly dejected as he turns around in his chair to gesture at the whiteboards. ‘Someone’s got to tell Ed that our game of hangman’s over.’

Kent resists the urge to check how far along they’ve got today. Ed keeps playing words like charivari and Gemeinschaft (he must be working on something new, not that any of them have the foggiest what it is) and looking beyond smug when he ventures above ground into the incident room to have a chat with Riley. Even so, Ed’s currently an arm and a leg away from losing the current round, and he’s only tried the vowels; Mansell looks loathe to wipe away the lines and letters now, when it looks as if his luck’s about to turn.

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult to get tidied up, anyway,’ Miles continues, not even bothering to hide the sly smile that’s crept onto his face. ‘Seeing as the boss is back today.’

‘Is he?’ Riley sounds intrigued, but wastes no time in turning on Kent. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

He resists the urge to slide down in his chair until he’s more than half hidden under the desk. ‘Sort of, yeah.’

She shoots him what’s possibly her most disbelieving look, the one her kids get when they say they’ve eaten their veg and not slipped it to the dog under the table. (He’d know, he’s seen it. He’d been quite impressed, actually, because it seemed the sort of thing that only happens in comics and films going for a hammy laugh.) He feigns snow-white innocence despite his growing suspicion that he’s never possessed such a thing.

‘And you didn’t say anything?’ She looks first at Kent, then ostentatiously around the room, searching for any semblance of support. ‘Cor, anyone might think you want to keep him all to yourself.’

Riley’s gaze lands on Kent again, and the look in her eye says that suggestion’s both a joke and something that he’s actually started doing. He’s been skating on the same patch of thin ice for so long that he doesn’t even experience a flush of alarm—the indignance that arrives isn’t for the suggestion, but for its frequency.

‘I didn’t get much of a chance, did I?’ He can’t help but bristle; he gestures in the direction of Mansell’s desk with a slightly desperate hand, trying to deflect when he knows it’ll never work. ‘What, with him and his girl in ripped tights.’

Mansell doesn’t even raise his eyes from the paper in his hands. He does, however, laugh once, and his carefully straight face is unnerving.

‘I’ve seen pictures of you and Erica as teenagers,’ he says, darkly and with a burgeoning wry smile.

Kent rolls his eyes; there were ripped tights involved back then, just not with him. ‘You’d best think twice about that missed connection, then.’

‘Nah. She says she’s blonde.’

‘And what the Metro prints is gospel.’

Mansell opens his mouth to shoot back another retort but Miles gets there first, gruff and galled.

‘What does it take to get you lot to do some work around here?’

‘Not bribes, evidently,’ Riley says with a smile, tipping her latte in a mock toast. ‘All right, then, skip. What’s first on the agenda?’

As it turns out, Miles actually has one. Kent smiles to himself a little as he’s going through one of the boxes of files that are still propped up against the legs of their desks; Mansell catches his eye once and pulls a face that suggests he thinks the skipper’s going mad. Maybe he is (that thought occurred to him long ago), but it doesn’t change the fact that Miles might go on about having retrained Chandler but there’s just as much gone the other way. Kent remembers a time when Miles would have gladly told PR to get stuffed and leave the proper coppers to policing, and now he’s actually sorted through three different store cupboards to find the spray that’ll get the gallows off the whiteboards.

Kent daren’t make a comment to the same effect—Miles would just argue his usual corner, that it’s Chandler who’s changed for the better, not him, and if he thinks so he needs his head checked—but he still thinks it. The fact that he makes Mansell do the actual cleaning, coupled with regular calls for a more liberal application of elbow grease, proves that he’s still the same skipper at the core. Kent almost joins in when he notices the end of a foot still encroaching on the clear edges of the board, but the incident room doors open with their usual groan and they all look up automatically.

Chandler pauses at the top of the steps, and before the doors have a chance to clunk shut behind him, he’s walking towards them, head lowered. Kent can’t help but think of the last time he had to make an entrance into this room and how badly that had gone, in the end, despite all their congratulations and pats on the back.

‘Boss!’ Mansell calls, rag and cleaning fluid forgotten. Kent almost relaxes, hearing his seemingly inextinguishable amiability. ‘Nice to see you sober.’

As ridiculous of a greeting as that is—and trust Mansell to pull it out now, he’s probably been sitting on it for weeks—it breaks the paper-frail sheet of thin ice that distance has put between them.

‘Good to see you back,’ Miles says, as warm as he goes. He motions towards the sling. ‘How are you?’

Chandler inclines his head a little, noncommittal. ‘Operational.’ 

Neither Kent nor Miles mention the way Chandler looks like that statement made a muscle cramp flare up. No doubt Miles has noticed—Kent can see it in him, too, that intensifying of the gaze that they all do when something out of place happens—but Chandler’s saved the lecture by Riley returning from a trek to the photocopier.

Chandler turns and she beams, depositing the pile of printer-warm papers on the nearest clear surface. ‘Hello, you!’

She’s the only one that risks a hug, though it’s not the stranglehold that Kent normally suffers through. He’s more surprised that Chandler lets her, albeit only for a moment; Kent and Miles share a side-slung glance loaded with both surprise and a healthy dose of _I told you so._ They’ve been doing that a lot lately but this time Chandler catches them at it, as Riley steps aside and tugs her sleeves to her elbows, and Kent’s face shifts to something sheepish. 

Chandler might cock his head, tiny and almost playful, barely a movement, but Kent’s ninety-nine percent sure he imagines it. They don’t have inside jokes. (Do they?)

‘I was going to see Ed but he’s not downstairs?’

‘Ah, no, he won’t be,’ Riley says. ‘He’s spent the past few days in the Wellcome Library.’

Mansell huffs. ‘Damn, I thought I’d stumped him.’

‘What?’ Chandler frowns as he looks around the rest of them, searching for context.

‘Just a game, sir.’

‘Right. I don’t—right.’

He shoots Kent a quick glance that almost looks like he wants to check that Kent will explain it to him, later, when they aren’t all gazing at him like a long-lost kinsman come back from the wilderness. Not that there’s ever really a good time to explain to your DI that, in his absence, they’ve regressed to playing word games on the same whiteboards they pin crime scene photographs to.

‘You’re in luck, boss,’ Miles says after a moment’s silence which consists of them all smiling, half-absently, in Chandler’s direction. ‘We’re embarking on one of your favourite tasks today.’

‘Oh?’

Kent tries not to let the way Chandler looks to him first, as if to say he didn’t realise he had a favourite, go to his head. It still manages to, just for a second, before he realises that the look might be one that asks if he’s been saying things he shouldn’t have and the preemptive rush of embarrassment arrives right on time. It doesn’t matter that he knows he hasn’t—that he knows he’s been holding out against a barrage of questions from three different directions—he still feels as if he’s thirty seconds away from blushing.

Miles, thankfully, distracts him. ‘Has that knock to the head put you off tidying up?’ 

Chandler looks between them all, blankly, for a moment more before an honest smile creeps up on him. Before, Kent would have wondered at the element of incredulity in his expression, thought that it might have something to do with them. Perhaps even a vague flashback to wondering why he gets on with these people. But now the look is familiar. Chandler still doesn’t quite believe it but because he values it—he must—and not because it doesn’t suit his idea of where he should be or what he should be doing.

’Speaking of,’ Miles says, grinning in the same way Liam does when he’s unlocked a new level on whatever game he’s playing this week. ‘Back to work, you lot. Stop gawking.’

The rest of them do but Kent only tries his best. The world’s not far, just left on the edges of desks or (in Mansell’s case) on the seat of a chair, but somehow Kent can’t quite bring himself to do much more than reach out and pull at the corner of some papers, shifting them into his grip only to run his fingertips along the edges. The others get stuck in straightaway; Miles is head-first, nearly, in the filing cabinets. Which is just as welll, really, seeing as if he wasn’t Kent would probably be on the receiving end of a potent stink eye right about now.

‘You were right about the Chief Super,’ Chandler says, quietly, when it’s just the two of them left standing in the valley between the rows of desks.

‘Was I?’

(He hadn’t meant to be.)

Chandler hums, Kent doesn’t push. If Chandler wants him to know he’ll tell him eventually, and Kent’s used to waiting. Whether it’s done him any good is another matter. His mouth, however, sometimes thinks for him. He hadn’t meant to ask—not again, not after last night—but his feelings usually find a way of leaking out.

‘You’ll be all right?’

‘Yes,’ Chandler says, a bit short, although not unkindly. His face softens incrementally as he lowers his voice. ‘It hurts, but it doesn’t feel like I’m damaging anything.’

Kent nods; he wishes he wasn’t tempted to say that he’d like to be able to say the same about himself. It’s less easy to ignore the hand, warm through Kent’s shirt sleeve, and the tone of quiet confession. The presence of the rest of the team suddenly seems oppressive, as if their noticing would hasten the end of the world.

‘Sorry.’ He shifts just enough to ease away from Chandler’s fingers. ‘I, um—I won’t ask.’

Chandler nods once, though there’s not really much about it that belies consent. Kent almost daren’t think it but he does: there’s something about the look on his face that suggests that it’s not the asking that’s the problem. That it’s not even the concern. Some part of Kent’s brain whispers, _time and place, you idiot, time and fucking place_ but he returns to the box of files without another word.

Chandler moves smoothly through their mid-sortout mess and returns to his office. Kent doesn’t watch—he doesn’t—and the fact that he accidentally ends up meeting Riley’s eye is entirely irrelevant. There’s really no need for her to smirk like that unless there’s something particularly amusing in the raggedy file in her hands.

‘What’s this?’

Her voice makes Kent raise his bowed head, hand still hovering over the pages he’s trying to put in the right order without the aid of (supposedly required) page numbers. It’s no comfort that Riley looks no more comfortable with whatever it is she’s trying to do. It involves duplicates, from the looks of it, which is enough to make Kent recoil.

After a moment’s bewildered silence, overwrought realisation dawns on her face. ‘Oh, good. _Official_ gibberish.’ She glances up and looks Kent directly in the eye so quickly it can’t be coincidence.

He knows it’s not when she holds their gaze and says, ‘It’s almost as if Christmas got here early,’ as if she’s not referring to the paperwork at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter: 19 March 2015.
> 
> Again: thank you all again for all the comments, kudos, and support over the past few weeks. I hope you've enjoyed this penultimate chapter, and I'm looking forward to seeing what you all think of the final one! x


	8. Chapter 8

It’s just their luck that a case saunters in and sits itself in their laps the week Chandler comes back.

Two days in, there are two reports. Normally there would be nothing unusual about that, nothing at all—they’re a police station, they get reports, it’s what they do—but these two make them pause. One is a missing persons report. The other is a body found in a flat. The problem is that the body in the flat is the same man as in the photographs in the missing person report, only he has two names and (apparently) two wives.

Kent sits in on the initial interview. He follows Miles’ lead as they gather the big details—the last known wheres, whens, hows. Mid-morning light strains through the curtain and glints off the new table, not a shard out of place this time. It doesn’t stop Kent from wanting to avert his eyes. He gives in to the urge, once, while Miles in pressing for the specific time that Mrs Chapman last saw her husband, only he makes eye contact with her instead. It shouldn’t be striking but it is: she spends more time looking at the rain on the window than she does them, thumbing at her bare ring finger all the while.

Mansell and Chandler are back from the mortuary when Kent and Miles emerge; Kent returns to the incident room while Miles escorts Mrs Chapman to officially identify the body. Not that it’ll shed much light on things. The autopsy report does, though, and all the while Chandler’s repeating information, Mansell goes more and more green around the gills. 

Kent would have thought that Chandler would be a little more perturbed than he is about still being on desk duty, or about having to operate under Miles for a change. Perhaps it's a matter of taking what he can get—God knows filling in paperwork to do with a case is more interesting than filling in paperwork to do with the number of office supplies they get through in a month, and no matter what some officers say, there's always a use for someone who can sit and think. Or, all right, sit and man the tipline. (Someone's got to do it.) 

However much of a taskmaster Miles reckons he is, though, he puts a uniform on the phones before they even start. Chandler joins the rest of them watching the names and places and times take shape in erasable ink before their eyes.

‘It’s a bit like a locked room mystery, isn’t it?’ Mansell suggests in a lull, head cocked to one side.

Riley tuts and manoeuvers around him, filling in details. ‘I’m surprised we’ve not had one of those yet, with our luck.’

Mansell huffs a laugh at the same time that a strange, troubled noise escapes Chandler. Miles appears not a second later and shoots the both of them a warning look.

‘If there’s one thing I’m an expert on, boss, it’s villains, chancers, and wrong’uns,’ he says turning an encouraging expression on Chandler as the others peer around him, looking apologetic. ‘Not as highbrow as your poetry and graphology, but it’s a skillset, nonetheless.’

And it’s true; Chandler smiles slightly, enough to be polite and a little sheepish, and the skipper steps up to do the brief. Kent parks himself on his usual corner of his usual desk to listen, the end of his pen tapping against his chin. It takes a moment of Miles going over the basic facts again for him to realise that it’s Chandler who’s stood at his shoulder. Close enough that he could lean against him and not fall to the side, but thinking that puts a familiar hitch in Kent’s brain and he forces himself to focus on Miles, the sparse timeline, and not on the way he can hear both his heartbeat and Chandler’s steady breathing in his ear.

‘Buchan? You got an opinion on this?’

‘You usually do,’ Riley says, with a smile and a jocular jostle of an elbow.

‘Ah, um, yes,’ Ed begins, clearing his throat and standing a little straighter. ‘You’re in luck. I’ve been meaning to get around to reassessing the files on impostors. There’s plenty, you know—‘ He turns to the nearest person; he’s lucky it’s Riley and not Peterson on his left, because she’s actually listening attentively if the look on her face is anything to go by. ‘Perhaps the best known is Martin Guerre in sixteenth century France—’

‘As fascinating as that may be, Buchan,’ Miles says in a tone that half suggests he now realises it was the wrong time to ask. ‘Could we leave it until later?’

‘Certainly. It’ll give me a chance to target the search a little more precisely.’

Ed looks positively galvanized at the prospect; Miles looks (quite rightly, in Kent’s opinion) wary.

‘Speaking of precision,’ Miles continues, ‘we need to go through everything we have with a fine-tooth comb.’

Kent’s quickly commandeered to accompany Miles in paying a visit to SOCO at the scene, just to see if there’s any insight to be found. Have a chat or three. The rest of them are to divide up the last of writing Chapman’s biography as well as Mathers’, since it looks as if this isn’t just the matter of throwing out a false name every now and then down the pub. Kent’s pretty sure Mansell’s done that once or twice, but even he’s looking a bit leery when it comes to this bloke. Perhaps that’s what they call character development.

When all the other jobs are meted out Miles pauses, studies the closed-mouth smile of the headshot they’ve got pinned to the whiteboard, then turns back to the rest of them.

‘Someone needs to go through all the CCTV.’ 

The usual silence ensues; no one ever really wants to dredge through hours of footage, and manning the tipline’s probably the only thing that’s less popular. Kent used to automatically get lumbered with both, those first couple of years when he’d been both the youngest and the newest, but now Riley’s the newest (though not particularly new, either, not anymore) although Kent’s still the youngest one out of uniform, and the formula doesn’t really work any more.

‘I’ll do it.’

Kent turns, slowly. It’s anachronistic, imagining Chandler sat at the same desk he’d occupied for years, staring at the same sort of footage. There’ll be differences, no doubt—only one cup of tea at a time, probably, and none of them will find Chandler slumped and squinting at grainy film with a pen stuck behind his ear. He probably won’t have to suffer the same sort of embarrassment as Kent did once, either, when they’d been working double time and Miles had found him slumped over the keyboard. He’d spent the next hour with the imprint of the return key under one eye and he’d sworn off attempting power naps ever since.

‘You sure, boss?’ Miles sounds as surprised as Kent feels, though his face remains its usual impassive self. ‘We can draft in a uniform or two.’

It’s the done thing when there’s not a runt to break in (and Kent’s been there, done that), but Chandler shakes his head in that slight way he does. It’s not a refusal, except it also is, and he mutters something that sounds like, ‘I’m not doing anything else useful.’ 

‘Well, if you insist. Hop to it, you lot.’

They do, but Kent lacks everyone else’s apparent single-mindedness. Chandler’s tone hadn’t been particularly encouraging, but he usually manages. Wallowing’s just the trick, sometimes, Kent knows, but he can’t help but be disquieted by the way Chandler pinches the bridge of his nose as they all turn to their stations.

He knows Chandler’s all right. He does, it’s a fact he’s watched grow more and more true by the day. He never was really in any danger, just an awful lot of discomfort, and yet as he moves to get to work Kent can’t help but keep shooting glances over his shoulder, reassurances more for himself than anyone else. Anyone who took the time to look would surely notice, just like anyone who scratched just beneath the surface would easily be able to see how deep Kent is, but no one does. There are other, more important things to examine than a couple of lovelorn looks thrown in Chandler’s direction, a man who attracts as much concern as he does contempt. From different people, of course, and suddenly Kent’s struck by the venom of the press and their adversaries in the station and Ed’s ever-growing map of strings and photographs and God-knows-what—

‘Kent, with me.’

‘I’ll look in on him,’ Riley says in a murmur as she passes, the half-hidden smile honest and chock full of sympathy. She chin-nods in Miles’ direction. ‘Go on, do your job.’

That’s not as straightforward as it sounds, and she knows it; Kent’s taken on another, hasn’t he, in the past month? Technically, no one’s relieved him of his duty yet. Loyalty’s a hard habit to break and he’s spread it too thinly amongst a few too many people, pledged himself where he hasn’t had to, enlisted in one too many movements. That’s his problem—he’s got a heart that’s dead easy to take, he knows that. The real issue is that he’s not got custody of it anymore; he hasn’t for a long time. He can’t compartmentalise. Not very well, anyway. 

But Miles is barking something at him, Riley’s pushing at his shoulder, and he relents. 

*

Miles plays the role of the hardened taskmaster well, but he is not one-dimensional. When the interviews are conducted, they talk themselves through the details again, looking for any discrepancy or match they missed at the time while London’s traffic slows their return to the station. Miles announces upon arrival that he’ll update the whiteboards, leaving Kent stood at his desk, coat still in hand, with the suggestion of seeing how the others have got on ringing in his ears.

He stays away from the obvious—or, at least, obvious to him—implication as long as he can: asking Riley to update him on the further interview with Mrs Campbell, engaging Mansell in a brief snap of a civil conversation that Erica would be proud of, even listening to a snippet of Ed’s inevitable contribution before he gives in and excuses himself in the middle of a retelling of some historical trial. He snatches at a page of his own notes as he passes his desk, something to hang on to. Proof of direction.

Not that he doesn’t know the way—he’s spent enough of his time walking back and to from the room before him now, fetching endless cups of tea and pressing his fingers against his eyelids after accosting them with hours of footage.

Kent props himself against the open doorway; the air smells of toner and static and Chandler can’t possibly look further from home. It isn’t that he’s sat in front of a desk, doing the research and the grunt work. Chandler’s comfortable with desks and looks perfectly at home with heavy mahogany numbers, filing cabinets and bookshelves at his back. Hell, he’d probably know how to riddle out one of those secret drawer compartments, if he had the time or the inclination. It’s just that he seems to suit starting at a surface overflowing with papers and photographs, photocopies and pages of hastily scribbled notes, more than he does studying hours of footage.

Someone probably should have mentioned that Simmons spilt tea on that keyboard last week, and that that’s why the whole left side is a bit wonky, but Chandler’s probably figured that out by now. He has been at it for a while. A stab of sympathy invades Kent’s chest without warning— _a while_ can feel like days, there, four square walls with all the movement just a little out of reach, reaching a crescendo at the open doorway then falling away again, a smorzando.

It’d been in this room when he’d felt it first, the prick of something deep and profane. He couldn’t see, so he can’t be sure, but he could feel Chandler’s eyes linger on him when they’d been going through the CCTV for the Ripper, he could feel him bracing his weight against the edge of the table with their hands close. Maybe that’s when the idea had wormed its way into his head. Maybe that’s when it started. But it meant nothing, they’d all still been trying to find their feet and he’d been the only one on Chandler’s side from the start. And he can’t keep thinking like this. He’d stopped trying to pinpoint that moment ages ago (had it been the beginning or the end?), so he clears his throat even though he knows Chandler’s already realised he’s there.

‘Anything?’

‘Nothing conclusive,’ Chandler says with a sigh. ‘The cameras picked an individual matching the description given on the main road, but they turn down a side street and, as far as I can tell, aren’t on the recording from the next camera down the line.’

It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s been unintentionally creative with a route and somehow given CCTV the slip without ever meaning to. But just because it’s plausible doesn’t mean it’s not disappointing and Chandler gingerly sits back in his chair with a hand to the bridge of his nose. Kent harbours an urge to lay a comforting hand on Chandler’s shoulder—or, God forbid, against the warm curve of his neck—and he waits safely by the doorframe until Chandler sighs and turns back towards him.

‘Were any of the interviews enlightening?’

‘That wouldn’t be the word I’d use,’ Kent says. ‘Interesting, maybe. One guy actually smelled like trouble—which, by the way, is cigarette ash meets diesel.’ 

All it would take is an incendiary and a spark. It’s a funny thought, that. Kent’s said it in all the tenses—future, present, past. He’s said it standing in a room smeared black with ashes and tar, he’s said it with dried leaves crackling under his feet on a fingertip search, he’s thought it when he’s looked back across the darkened incident room to find Chandler’s office still illuminated like dying embers. It’s never been more than something to say in a lull, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t play on his mind.

‘But nothing,’ he continues on a sigh as Chandler continues to watch him with an expectant expression, ‘so far as we can tell, pertaining to the case.’ 

‘Everything’s pertinent, Kent.’

‘Yeah, you know what I mean.’ He shoves his hands into his pockets, scraping the shoulder of his jacket against the doorframe with a shrug. ‘Nothing flagged up.’

There might have been time for another heavy sigh then, but the doors to the incident room slam and they both look in their direction out of habit. The fact that Miles’ voice carries from the next room, calling them all back for an update, makes it so that Kent frowns (his old friend the sinking feeling’s back) and Chandler huffs as he gets to his feet. Kent almost mentions something to do with the shoulder, that he never really know whether it was better to sit still or move about at this stage either, but Miles is sounding more and more impatient so he just follows Chandler through.

‘Any luck your end?’ Riley asks as they approach and find spaces to stand between the desks.

Kent shakes his head and settles against the desktop the way Chandler’s never been able to completely train out of them. He’s vaguely aware that he’s automatically taken up a spot next to Mansell, which he’s been consciously avoiding doing for a few months, but perhaps that’s because Chandler’s on his other side and that’s enough to send anyone into a tizz, as his aunt would say. Why that’s popping into his mind now’s probably just more bolstering evidence. 

‘None our end either,’ Riley gestures with the papers in her hands, tuts as one corner catches on the knit of her jumper. ‘Plenty of information, we just haven’t got the foggiest how to put it together to get a picture. The man’s got two passports, God knows how he managed that. It’s just all groping in the dark.’

Mansell jostles Kent with an well-placed elbow and a suggestive, ‘Oooh-er.’

Kent rolls his eyes and lets the movement travel through him; there’s no point resisting anymore. Especially not now Erica’s in on it too. She wouldn’t have been able to let that one go past, either. Miles would probably grin and snicker as well if he wasn’t stood in front of them and the rest of the officers with an expression on his face that says he’s got to say something he doesn’t want to. Kent glances up at Chandler—a habit, now, one he’s going to have to rebreak—and finds him looking like he’s noticed, too.

‘All right, you lot,’ Miles says as the room quietens. ‘I have just been informed that, apparently, we’re stepping on some toes with this investigation.’

A disgruntled murmur goes around the room; Chandler remains conspicuously silent. 

‘Martin Chapman is apparently a known alias of an individual in connection to DCI Davidson’s current investigation in Organised Crime. Davidson will be leading this inquiry from tomorrow onwards; some of you will be seconded to the department for the duration.’ Miles pauses for a brief glance around the room, for as much as he takes the piss out of Ed’s theatrics there is a certain need for a touch of them in situations like this. ‘And he asks that the rest of you be available to speak to if needed, and that we would pass on any information we’ve come across today.’

‘What sort of thing they looking for?’ Riley asks, already gathering her small pile of documents. 

‘We are to bring anything and everything to their attention. They wish to decide what is pertinent and what is not.’

Kent’s pretty sure he hears Mansell mutter _Am I the only one who’s tempted just to dump the whole lot on the twat’s desk and wait for him to find it tomorrow morning?,_ but if anyone else does then they must share the sentiment. He certainly does. It’s not the first time they’ve had their cases interfered with and no matter how legitimate the claim is, there’s still something about it that makes them all resentful. Especially after what they know.

But if there’s anything they’re used to it’s unexpected disappointment, so they grit their teeth and get on with it. Miles is the sort of copper who had already fought tooth and nail for a straight answer at this point. If there was any foreseeable alternative, he would have taken it. It’s why they all grumble instead of argue; even Chandler wordlessly doubles back to retrieve the printouts of screencaps of the CCTV, individuals matching the supplied description circled. He gratefully accepts a new folder to keep it all in from Riley; Kent only notices because he’s hurt himself occasionally fighting with the faulty drawers of the supply cabinet and he was ready to offer to fetch one himself for the sake of Chandler’s collarbone.

Somehow Chandler gravitates back towards him—Kent almost elbows him accidentally when he thought he’d somehow managed to lose Mrs Chapman’s statement in the two minutes the file was out of his hand. It must be his (especially) unlucky day because he almost does the same to Miles when he approaches but, instead, with an errant stapler that seems to have appeared on his desk despite the fact he’s already got two.

‘Go on, go home, boss,’ Miles says, eyeing Kent’s hands warily as he holds them both up in silent apology. ‘We can finish up here.’

‘I should stay—‘

‘Don’t make me order you.’ Miles says it like it’s not even a threat. ‘You look like you need rest more than a Dalek needs a bungalow.'

‘What?’

‘My kids. Osmosis. Don't ask.’

Kent can’t resist. ‘They hover now, skip.’

Miles tuts and mutters, ‘What is the world coming to?’

Chandler looks between them both as if they’ve crossed a chasm into a world he knows exists but only over there, in a sense of otherness. Kent smirks to himself and leans over the closest desk to straighten a slanting stack of files. Either he’s worked for Chandler for too long or his mother’s nature’s finally coming out in him, because as he does it he can’t help thinking that if they have to give all their work over to Organised Crime then it’s bloody well going to be the neatest handover they’ve seen. Even by Chandler’s standards.

‘Now, seriously, boss.’ Miles sets his no-nonsense tone on Chandler, complete with its usual tinge of exasperation. ‘Home with you.’

Chandler huffs and mutters, ‘Fine,’ in a way that’s so much like Kent as a teenager that it actually makes his hands stop moving against the papers for a moment.

‘And you make sure he gets there.’

Miles jabs a finger in Kent’s direction as he walks towards a suddenly-ringing phone; for a moment Kent wonders if that’s too convenient, too easy, but he’s not sure if the skipper would have the tech know-how to orchestrate a suspiciously well-timed call just for the sake of stopping Chandler from arguing with him. Either way, it’s done now, and Chandler’s glancing around the room as if he’s looking for something that he can grab on to as an excuse to keep going. It doesn’t slip past Kent’s notice that he winces a little, smothering the expression in that way he does, as he turns to speak to him.

‘You don’t actually have to, you know,’ Chandler says.

‘You keep saying that, sir.’

Kent doesn’t mention that even though Chandler does keep saying it, it doesn’t sound the same. There’s not the same solidity behind the words. The sense that he’s releasing him of an obligation’s gone, Kent can hear that. It’s just an offering, now. One he’s not going to take, not if he doesn’t have to.

‘Anyway, I think I do,’ Kent says with a growing smile. ‘I think it comes under the heading of _any other specified duties_.’

Mansell, with his propensity for being in the right place at the wrong time, takes the opportunity to appear at Chandler’s shoulder and say, ‘And the skipper was pretty specific, boss.’

(And if he winks at Kent when Chandler’s looking in the other direction, momentarily distracted, then that’s something they’ll just have to keep between themselves. It’s not the first time Mansell’s stuck his oar in, trying to help. It’s not the first time it might have worked, either, because Chandler’s not looking as ruffled as he usually does at being bossed about a bit.)

He doesn’t, however, look entirely convinced. Relief skitters across his face quickly as Miles reappears and asks after a file that he’d last seen on Chandler’s desk, but it doesn’t survive Miles retrieving it himself, nor the next impatient look he slings in their direction. In fact, Chandler looks just about as dejected as Kent’s childhood dog used to when it started to rain and they were just a bit too slow in getting the back door open.

‘Come on, you know what he’s like,’ Kent says, gently nudging Chandler’s good arm with an elbow as he stacks the last pair of lever arch files. ‘He’s only got a few more days in the top job, so it’s probably best humour him.’

It hadn’t been a happy abdication the first time around, but Kent reckons it’ll be infinitely easier this time. Once or twice he’d heard Miles complaining about the amount of paperwork, mainly regarding how much Chandler takes off their hands. He’d joined up to do police work, he’d muttered, not to do ruddy reports. Plus, anyone who takes a single look at their team can see that they might not be all cozy and warm—what department is?—but they all want each other to do well.

And no one wants that more than Miles, who recommended Riley for promotion, who had brought Mansell up to speed with the new standards faster than anyone else could, who took Kent under his wing when he’d first joined CID and kicked him out of the nest when he was ready, and who, despite the initial thorns, has taken about as much care of Chandler as the Commander has.

Kent frowns to himself and wonders when he got so soft.

‘The precedent’s not great, is it?’ Chandler says, stepping aside and closer to Kent as someone pushes a cart of Ed’s research back towards the lifts.

Kent has to try very hard not to think about how Chandler’s well within arm’s reach. ‘It’s been just like old times.’

Except no, it hasn’t, and nothing will ever feel like that again. It’s not a melancholy thought, or even a dismal one; it just is. Too much and too little has happened; time’s passed, like it always does, like it always will. Kent would have been scared by that thought once. He hadn’t really understood what they meant by time heals until it actually did. Not well, mind you—open wounds have knitted together with a distinct lack of finesse, technicolor memories have faded to grainy black and white film reel with half the sound missing—but it has tried.

‘Anyway,’ Kent says, shaking the thought away as Mansell returns to collect the pile of marked papers from the edge of Kent’s desk; Chandler’s already looking at him as he turns to continue. ‘I said I would, didn’t I?’

‘Yes,’ Chandler agrees. ‘You did.’

*

Kent huffs into the dark, frowning at nothing in particular. Despite the fact he’s not been to sleep yet, his jumper’s still managed to get uncomfortably twisted around his middle. In fact, it’s probably because he can’t sleep that he’s been switching from one side to the other, alternating between pressing his face into the feathery darkness of the pillow and watching the faint glinting of some device’s electronic light in the glass of the coffee table. That’s supposed to keep pets up at night, isn’t it? Blinking sleep-mode lights? Maybe that’s why.

He sighs again, a little more emphatically this time, as he turns onto his back and lifts himself away from the cushions a little to pull the knit straight. The correction doesn’t make him immediately drowsy, despite all his hope. If he was in his own flat then he’d get up and do something, settle the feeling in the back of his mind that he could be doing something productive. He might even be lucky enough to collide with Hannah in the kitchen, where she’s trying to make toast at three in the morning without waking him, and they could commiserate about the fact they’re awake at this time over marmalade.

But he’s not, he’s still on Chandler’s sofa. A tiny groan escapes his throat as he brings his arm up over his face and hides in the angle it makes. In the soft, blind dark he can hear his watch tick away on his wrist; the hands had angled over midnight hours ago and haven’t stopped since.

It's one of those nights, the ones he never really thinks about when they're not actually interrupting, the times he really remembers how lucky he is to be able to fall asleep. Kent sits up and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms, drawing his knees up under the blankets until he's resting his elbows against them, head turned to watch the edge of light that bracket each window. The room stays still despite his wakefulness, but he watches as if something should move, that his consciousness should be the start of something. Except it never really ended in the first place, he's lain there for God knows how long thinking that if he gets to sleep now it'll be six hours before he has to get up for the shift, then five hours, then four.

He squeezes his eyes shut, red then black behind his eyelids, but it doesn’t help. Instead Kent huffs, rubs his shins and throws off the covers, folding them over the back of the couch, and stands, taking a moment to stretch. He's starting to wonder if maybe all this time on Chandler's sofa isn't good for his spine, but he refuses to think that he's getting too old for this sort of thing. Refuses to think about the spectre that settled in at the back left corner of his mind years ago, taken up residency without fanfare and is waiting for the right time to tell him he's broken, he really is, and he should have known.

He shakes his head as he would if he was clearing sleep, except he's not that lucky, and pads through to the kitchen. He doesn't care how cliché and overdone it is, because in his experience cups of tea really do solve most problems, and he opens the cupboard with as much care as he'd handle the thin shell of an egg. For some reason he reaches for the box of tea that Chandler's been getting through at an alarming rate, because although Kent had bought a box of his own to keep here for the duration, Kent had been surprised to find that Chandler's home selection of oolong was actually nice. He'd tried some generic variant of green tea once, bought surreptitiously as part of the weekly shop that first year, and gone straight off the idea when the the first sip passed his lips.

Nevertheless, he'd quickly been lumped with tea-making duties when it came to Chandler in the office; there was more than one form of penance for having worked in a coffee shop when he was seventeen, and understanding how to brew something other than builder's tea strong enough to dissolve a spoon is one of them. That, and a chronic inability to stomach coffee left in the jug for too long, or having impossibly high standards for what he calls a passable cappuccino. Not that he should complain, because it’s served him well enough over the years, but being this awake at the three in the morning when no one’s called in a code zero tends to put him in a complaining mood. 

Kent rests his hand in his pajama pocket, tapping out the tune to the last song he listened to against his thigh, waiting and wondering vaguely about how this—standing in Chandler’s flat in the dark—doesn’t feel weird anymore.

Sometimes he wakes, in his own bed, and raises his head slightly to hear the kettle going; he usually just rolls over and goes back to sleep. There's no guarantee that Chandler would do the same, but there's no guarantee he'll even notice, either, so Kent fills the kettle. Trust Chandler to have one of the new-fangled ones that actually have different temperature settings. At least it wouldn't have to boil; that's always the longest part, the stretch of _oh come on, come on already_.

The heating water rumbles softly at Kent's back; he leans against the counter and surveys the rest of the room, the tips and troughs of shadows. Once or twice he thinks he hears someone stirring, but his halted breathing and careful listening reveal nothing more than an overactive imagination. He can't quite tell if he wants to hear steps making their way towards him or not, because they'll only be from one person and they need their sleep. No matter what they think. 

Kent goes back to thinking about anything that’s not thinking about not sleeping: what to get Riley for her birthday, when’s the last time he rang his mum, whether he should be doing something about that clunking sound his washing machine’s been making. He’s only just managed to count back two weeks when the kettle clicks off and he turns to pour the water into the borrowed mug. He runs on autopilot, a ritual that lets even the guilt about not ringing slip from his mind, and he presses a teaspoon against the bag until he’s happy with the colour.

He settles back down against the blanket and pillow, grateful for the familiarity of the residual warmth, and takes long, slow sips of his tea. He thinks of nothing except the heat of the drink against his chin and it’s a luxury to sit there and not wonder. He knows that he’ll start to think again in a moment, but the realisation is peripheral, so he draws the mug a little closer and listens to the quiet of the dark, the occasional clatter and bang of distant trains and traffic, until something much quieter and nearer snags his attention.

He should have known he couldn’t get away with being this awake and mobile; he blunders enough in the daylight hours. The fact that Chandler’s footsteps are so light, a little like leaves in a gentle wind, makes Kent feel as if his breathing’s more like a gale, but he doesn’t do anything. He’s not a child, he can’t hide his head under the blankets as much as some distant, primordial part of him wants to; any fast movement isn’t a good idea either, because he’d either scald himself or splash a faintly green stain onto the cream fabric, neither of which is a risk he’s willing to take.

Instead, Kent waits, and reacts slowly; he puts it down to the lateness of the hour, the molasses of the very first hours of morning. He’s just going to ignore the fact that his heart rate’s just jumped. What he’s not going to do, though—because that’s always easier to decide, in Kent’s experience—is let Chandler think he’s startled him, so Kent turns just far enough to be able to keep an eye on the doorway. He rests his chin on his own shoulder,

Chandler rounds the corner and they spend a good long moment just looking at one another (like tomcats who’ve passed in the street). It’s clear enough that Chandler’s not been to sleep, either, because Kent knows what he looks like drowsy now. He can even tell the difference between him just drifting off and him having been medicated, which is a realisation that he doesn’t need right now. Chandler just looks fed up. Tired in the same way Kent is, half-annoyed and half-resigned. 

Kent’s distinctly aware that he’s the one that’s trespassing, who’s somewhere other than home, and yet neither of them do anything. There’s a light on, somewhere, casting a pathway of light through the hallway that throws the rest of the room into shadow as it reaches in towards where Kent’s sat. He cups the drink in his hands and feels his palms sting and subside; it’s easier to do that than it is to leave his entire mind to focus on the way Chandler’s stood there, backlit and somehow simultaneously achingly familiar and devastatingly unknown. 

It’s not the first time he’s seen him without a shirt—they’ve collided accidentally in the toilets before (they all have, except maybe Riley), and he’s been in the flat for long enough, too—but it’s so much easier to deny the world exists outside these walls so that a long look wouldn’t do anything. Except it would, and Kent never forgets that. He only feels as if the wool around him’s suddenly scratchy, or that he’s done something the wrong way round.

But his shoulders have always been susceptible to the cold and Chandler's sitting room is made of windows and exterior walls so he can’t blame him for doing something about the threat of shivering. Except no one’s saying anything, not even to comment on Kent’s pilled jumper, so Kent cocks his head slightly in an unspoken question.

(As if they don’t have enough of those already.)

Chandler breaches the silence first. ‘Are you all right?’

Kent shakes his head, ignores the howling in his blood and says, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘You didn’t.’ 

Kent nods despite his residual doubt; Chandler’s got a voice like the bottom of the ocean at night, deep and incomprehensible, and it’s not something he has a chance of arguing with. He daren’t even think about what it all means (a dangerous question in the daylight, let alone in the witching hour) so instead he figures he should just accept it as something that’s happened. Because it has. There’s no point panicking now, as much as some deep-seated, mitochondrial part of himself wants to.

‘No sling?’ 

(Kent has to focus far too much on his enunciation to make sure that _No shirt?_ doesn’t accidentally slip from his mouth.)

‘No,’ Chandler says, glancing down at his arm as if it’s not attached to him. ‘I’m supposed to start going without it every once in a while. It’s more comfortable at night.’ He doesn’t sound convinced. ‘Not that I’m sleeping well either way.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Kent says, on a sigh. ‘Me neither.’

Chandler hums, and Kent immediately wants to say that he knows it’s not the same. That he knows it’s presumptuous to equate them, or something, but no precise words come to mind so Kent lives with the sliver of extra embarrassment. He turns forward again, letting his eyes settle unconsciously on the contents of the coffee table, and almost manages to ignore the way the floorboards give as Chandler moves to walk again. Something akin to anticipation prickles through his spine. He feels as if his stomach’s gnawing on his backbone, he’s got it so well trained to be nervous when Chandler’s near like this. He moved past butterflies long ago. 

‘I borrowed some of your tea,’ Kent says eventually, lamely motioning with the mug. 

It’s something to say, at least, and when Chandler sits down next to him there’s a faint smile on his face, not one made entirely of amusement but a half-formed apology, too.

‘A fraction of the recompense you deserve,’ Chandler says eventually, his tone needlessly hushed.

Kent murmurs something nondescript back, in an equally quiet tone, despite the fact they're alone in the flat. Something about the night makes it feel as if they're alone in the city, in the world, with only the night sky blanched free of stars by city light outside the windows. They can't see it, they aren't looking; Kent glances up at Chandler when he goes for another sip of the oolong, the smell of almost-chamomile familiar and resolutely reminiscent of Chandler. Maybe that's why he'd fancied some; he fancies him, after all, but he's been trying not to let those thoughts loose at the front his mind when he's here. It's too close and not close enough at all, but with Chandler sat at his side, breathing softly and deeply, the feeling creeps up on him.

‘Sorry about the case.’ 

(They both know that hasn’t helped. Kent can read it in the way Chandler’s quiet. He’s not a loud man—neither of them are—but there’s a quality to everybody’s silence that’s their own and there’s something off in Chandler’s. There are a hundred things that could be keeping him awake, Kent knows, but it’s not a big leap to make when Chandler’s gaze goes vacant like that.)

‘It’s not your fault,’ Chandler says.

Kent wants to say _It’s not yours, either,_ but he finds himself watching the curve of his lips and the flick of his tongue as he speaks, his features highlighted blue and black from the city light that seeps through the closed curtains. Kent wants to touch him and watch him shiver, but those thoughts only make it this far out when it’s dark and he herds them back into their boxes.

‘It’s disappointing, though.’ Kent takes another sip, buying time to think. The mug’s back on the table when he says, ‘We never seem to catch a break.’

Chandler shrugs, as far as he’s able to, and before Kent can tell himself not to he’s reached out and laid his hands gently on the breadth of Chandler’s shoulders. For a second there, it had seemed imperative to do so—he exerts the slightest amount of pressure, scared of the risk that comes with much more weight, but just enough to say _No, don’t, don’t do that._  

Kent can almost feel the point where he could have removed his hands, peeled his palms away from the warmth of Chandler’s skin, and they could have moved on without this moment being a thing. Except of course he feels the point approach and ignores it as it sails by, because yes, this has to become a thing. He should have flinched back with a hushed ‘Sorry,’ should have looked to the floor and kept his gaze there as if he’d been trying to memorise the grain of the wood. But he doesn’t, and his hands are still on Chandler’s shoulders. Chandler’s eyes are still on him, searching.

‘I don’t want you to hurt yourself,’ Kent murmurs, quiet, confessional.

‘I can do that well enough without doing anything to my bones.’

Chandler doesn’t look away from him; it’s probably horror, embarrassment, something that neither of them will be able to cope with in the morning, but Kent can’t even consider that possibility now. He’s gone too far and too far gone—there’s no turning back.

‘Humour me?’ 

Chandler doesn’t even sigh; he just nods. Kent hadn’t meant to ask, hadn’t meant to try and make his trespass legal, but here they are. In the darkness you cannot be seen, not even by yourself. Lost, somewhere, in the velvet night. But maybe you can be felt. Chandler’s part-shadowed features are thrown into relief as Kent smooths his palms across the breadth of Chandler’s shoulders, his touch ghosting and light out of both fear and care. He traces the declivities of his shoulders, either side of the clavicular notch, until his fingers encounter a lump of coagulate bone _—_ it’san interruption in the width of his skin, like rents in silk cloth. Kent’s fingers linger even as his mind tells him to ignore it, to move on; Chandler shifts, ever so slightly, and Kent retreats a millimeter. 

‘Am I hurting you?’

Chandler shakes his head and murmurs, ‘No,’ and Kent can’t help but be struck by the fact that only one of those motions was strictly necessary. There’s assent in that denial, too, and it’s a dangerous line to tread but that’s where they stand. It’s where they’ve always stood. Kent’s hands had hovered a small distance away from Chandler’s skin and bone, ready to be told to move all the way back, but as Chandler breathes and watches he cants towards Kent’s open fingers a little, ever so slightly. Kent’s breath catches a little; there’s physicality in the unsaid, and they’ve been close enough to saying it that the separating layer has worn thin.He knows that now, and from the way Chandler’s pulse trips as Kent skirts his fingertips across his neck, he knows, too.

‘You, um—‘ Chandler swallows under Kent’s fingers. ‘When you asked, about the pub. You said me.’

Kent almost lets go as if the words burn, their intensity not muffled by the warmth and protection of Chandler's skin, his throat. But he doesn't, he keeps his light touch there because God knows when he'll be able to do this again, trace the delicate lines of his jaw and jugular. He narrows his mouth instead, shifting his eyes from Chandler's to the the dip of skin at the base of his neck.

'Yeah,' he admits, a canine digging into the inside of his bottom lip.

Chandler nods, the movement so slight it's barely a reflex, and maybe it's only because Kent's always hyperaware of Chandler when he's around that he notices the way his hands move, the way his arms shift and his fingers fan out across his knees. Kent can't tell if he's the only one trembling.

'Was that a mistake?'

Chandler's whispering now, the way Kent's felt a thousand times before inside interview rooms, when he's sat in with him. The words travel past his hands, his fingers, as present as any other, even if his hearing can't find it in such measure. He’s probably gone a violent shade of pink but he’s sat just outside the light, like he has been for most of his life, so he’s still keeping some of his secrets to himself.

‘I don’t know.’ There goes his last wraith of restraint; the words are more tremulous than he means them to be. ‘Was it?’

The heart’s an arrogant sod of an organ, because it lurches forwards as soon as Kent sees something flicker on Chandler's mouth, something that moves upwards instead of down, something that looks a bit like hope and relief all swirled together somewhere he can't see. Somewhere in Chandler's head, somewhere in him, there's been the same--or at least something similar--because Kent can't stop the corners of his mouth from twitching at that, at the lack of an immediate rebuttal, and he strokes his thumbs back and forth over the warmth of Chandler's skin. 

He still can't say it. Not in as many words. Kent scolds himself for that, even now, but Chandler's dipped his head to follow Kent's line of sight and he can't help it if his hands slip to Chandler's face, his fingers playing over his ears; an old boyfriend had said he's the face-grabbing type, and Kent hadn't known if that was true or not then, but it certainly feels that way now. He can't feel anything other than the hinge of Chandler's jaw against his palm as he opens his mouth to speak then decides against it, and the tentative hand on his knee almost overrides his instinct to breathe.

It’s far from a perfect moment, but Kent already has his fingers on Chandler’s jaw, thumb resting on his chin, and the idea’s out in the open for the first time in its life. He leans in and has just enough time to realise what he’s going to do before he does it, but by that point it doesn’t matter and there’s so little space between them, so he presses his mouth to Chandler’s.

His stomach contracts hard at the first brush of lips, and he has to force himself not to lean into Chandler as heavily as he wants to. A creeping paranoia whispers to him that Chandler’s only humouring him, sitting through something that he thinks he owes for all the kindness he’s been given, but it’s banished as Chandler presses back with a small sigh, tilting his head slightly to make it more comfortable, as if he’s planning on staying there for a while.

Kent covers the back of Chandler’s neck with his hand; in any other situation he might have pulled as well, tried to bring him close enough for them both to topple backwards eventually, but as much as he’s wondered about what it would feel like to have Chandler on top of him he can’t stop thinking of his still-mostly-broken bone and how gingerly he’s been moving, how he’s straddling the line between gentle and tentative for more than one reason. Yet he’s not simply letting Kent get this close him; Kent’s peripherally aware of Chandler’s hand hovering just above his waist. He’s just about to sit back, establish what this means (because he knows that’s something they’re going to have to do and it makes him simultaneously thrilled and terrified), but Chandler lets his touch fall on Kent’s side and Kent sighs, pleased, and decides against it. He thinks he feels Chandler smile against him, just for a nervous and disbelieving second. 

Chandler loops his good hand into Kent’s ridiculous, lumpy jumper and Kent can’t believe it as he brushes his fingertips through the ends of Chandler’s hair. Maybe it’s right that their first kiss is when they’re like this, rumpled and well-worn to softness. They’re not the same people when they’re not in three-piece suits with their warrant cards in their pockets. Chandler’s warm and just as human as the rest of them, shifting gently under Kent’s hands, and there’s almost no overlap between this man and ‘sir’, although Kent knows that there is. If there wasn’t then his stomach wouldn’t jump as Chandler smooths the fabric against his side, he wouldn’t recognise it as _him_ and wouldn’t give that little moan at something as inconsequential as a tentative hand on his neck. His heart thumps hard and fast against Chandler’s palm and he doesn’t even think to be ashamed of it.

Just as Kent’s starting to forget that there’s a world beyond that one point of contact, beyond the press of Chandler’s mouth against his, either he pushes the angle too far or Chandler leans in the wrong direction because he breaks away with a truncated hiss. Kent’s hand slips from Chandler’s neck and before he even realises what’s happened they’re clambering over one another to apologise, to get in their sorry in first; their hands tangle as much as their words collide. 

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Kent says, incriminatingly breathless. ‘Are you all rig—’

‘No, it’s—sorry—’

Kent hadn’t realised how close he’d inched, or how his hands come back to cover the back of Chandler’s skull without him meaning to. Chandler doesn’t shrug him off, though, so he stays close, searching for some sort of reassurance. It doesn’t matter what form it comes in, not really, it never has, but Chandler meets Kent eye for a moment’s pause through the thinning dark, one corner of his mouth turned up, and for some reason it reassures that insidious doubt churning in Kent’s stomach that he’s done something they’ll both regret in the morning light.

Kent rubs at Chandler’s neck, tangles their fingers as Chandler raises his good hand to do the same; now he’s touched him he doesn’t quite want to stop. It still feels like it might be the only time he’s allowed. Except he doesn’t want to just be allowed, he wants Chandler to want it, too, and he fits his fingers so easily between Kent’s that it’s almost as if they’ve done this before, as if the world’s been waiting for them to just try it. 

He knows Chandler carries a lot of tension in his shoulders and neck; he’s seen him knead the muscle this way a thousand times, the motion almost as familiar to Kent as it is unconscious for Chandler, so it’s unsurprising that their touch finds the same places, that Chandler shifts into the pressure of Kent’s hand as much as he does his own. That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t bring a new flush heat to Kent’s face when Chandler looks at him properly. 

It’s the sameness that gets him. Kent half expected there to be a different look in Chandler’s eyes, now, that what they’ve done is one of those irreversible cosmic shifts that stops everything from sitting right. He should have known better than to overestimate his own worth to the universe, but he’s always done that, and Chandler’s eyes are the same. Familiar. Kent almost feels at home in them.

‘Hey,’ Kent says, because nothing else comes to mind.

Chandler frowns. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Me?’ The question startles a laugh out of Kent. ‘I’m out of my mind, clearly.’

Kent turns away as soon as he finishes speaking, tempted to hide his face before it goes so red that it’ll never go back to normal, but Chandler stills and sighs. Kent’s hyperaware that his fingers have shifted to the slope of Chandler’s neck and shoulder; the tendons shift under his palm and he feels the depth of exhalation. 

‘Not that far,’ Chandler murmurs, and Kent’s struck by the insane urge to laugh again.

He almost kisses him again, actually, now he’s broken through that barrier, but some semblance of sense catches up with him and he takes a deep breath instead.

‘What did you mean,’ he begins, softly, as he slips away his hand, ‘when you said you didn’t want to make me cry at your funeral?’

It takes a moment longer than usual for Chandler to frown. ‘What?’

‘It was the night you went into hospital. The nurse told me you’d said it.’ Kent’s stalling a little, deflecting with details, aware of Chandler trying to think when he let that slip. ‘I wasn’t actually there.’

‘Oh.’

The sound comes out croaky, half-strangled. For a moment, Kent’s sure that’s all they’re going to say on the matter, but Chandler looks into the space above Kent’s left shoulder and clears his throat.

‘It’s… During the Watney case, after the shooting, I argued with Miles. He said that if I got myself killed, he’d be the only one crying at my funeral.’

Kent doesn’t nod, but he knows. They’d all heard, even though the panelling.

What he does say is, ‘That’s not quite true,’ because even the thought of it does something very strange to his throat, so much so that the words come out as if they’ve been squeezed.

‘That’s what Miles said, eventually. When we apologised. He said you’d cry more than anyone.’ 

Kent almost nods this time. He doesn’t, not quite, but Chandler catches his eye again and looks at him like he knows. Kent’s so far gone now he doesn’t care if Chandler knows—how can he not, now, _after_ —but he still misses a breath when Chandler touches at the skin under his eye, gentle and skittish. 

‘I don’t want to make you do that,’ he says, retreating as he mistakes an involuntary movement of Kent’s for a flinch, ‘but I probably will.’

Kent doesn’t mean to but he smiles; Chandler frowns, a little, but Kent gives a little shake of his head; there’s no way Chandler can know how close he just came to reading his mind. He daren’t wonder what multitude of meanings might be wrapped in those words, either. The stupid part of him wants to blurt out that he’d be happy to cry over him if it meant they tried, if it meant they had a bit of time, however long that might be. Isn’t that the whole point, though? Falling in love is your heart collapsing in on itself. But he’s waxing philosophical because those are Chandler’s fingertips hovering around his wrist, tracing short strokes against the blue of his veins, a movement in stillness.

‘You already have,’ he murmurs, turning his wrist up and exposed without looking at the way the shift brings Chandler’s fingers closer to his stuttering heartbeat. ‘But I’m still here, aren’t I?’

He’d cursed Chandler’s name alongside his own and the Krays’ and the Brooks’ as he’d pressed his shoulder blades into the scrape of brick and mortar; he’s swallowed down the sharp stab of righteous indignation mixed with gut-wrenching hurt when he’d put down the phone and looked at Chandler’s face and heard his voice. The soft regret that hadn’t meant anything, the _I wish it hadn’t been you_ ~~that~~ might as well have said _It was you, I know it was you_. He’d stood in Ed’s kitchen and let Chandler give him motives, let him pin an explanation to his reactions that wasn’t strictly true; he’d let Chandler ignore him, dismiss his instincts. They aren’t angels. They aren’t even good—the best they can hope for is ambiguity—but if they’re already in a grey area what’s a little more confusion? 

The universe tends towards entropy, after all.

‘It wouldn’t matter, either way,’ Kent murmurs, fingers twitching in a distant cousin of a shiver as Chandler skims close to the cuff of his jumper, the knit pulled loose through time.

It really wouldn’t. Chandler can sit here and say _no, sorry, I’d break your heart, it’s for your own good_ —and it still wouldn’t matter. The end result’s more or less the same, as far as Kent’s concerned. If you’re unlucky enough to live, you’ll have your heart broken. Even the lucky ones do eventually.

‘I’d still…’

Kent gives up, shrugs instead, and contemplates the taste of truth in his mouth as Chandler presses a little harder on his wrist, smooths two fingers across the bone until they can both feel the flurried beat beneath. It’s the most unreliable place to look for signs of life—you can’t sign off on anything having just looked for a radial pulse, they both know that—but the pinch of Chandler’s touch is proof, not of a transgression, but of something else entirely. 

‘Are you a restless sleeper?’

‘What?’ Kent tries to centre himself but his mind’s still caught on the question, on the careful quality of Chandler’s voice. ‘No, I don’t think so. Maybe.’

Suddenly all he can think is that he should know this. He shouldn’t have to think about it. Then again he doesn’t have to think about breathing, usually, and he seems to be doing a lot of thinking about that now. His brain isn’t working, it’s all static. He seems to have forgotten what it means to sleep at all, but he can’t quite decide when he lost that knowledge—before or after? That’s how everything’s going to go now. Before he kissed Chandler and after. When was that—what time is it? Kent can’t tell and he doesn’t know. He’d check his phone but Chandler’s still resting his fingers on Kent’s wrist and Kent’s sort of forgotten where his phone is.

‘Maybe?’ 

Chandler sounds about as confused as Kent feels; he looks it, too, when Kent finally wrenches his gaze back to Chandler’s. 

‘That wasn’t—’ Kent stops and thinks about it for a moment, and half-smiles because it’s so ridiculous that he has to say this at all. ‘That wasn’t the question I thought you’d ask first.’

Chandler doesn’t smile back—or, if he does, it’s too quick for Kent to see properly in the dark. He almost wants to press closer again, see if he can feel the set of Chandler’s mouth instead of just guess at recognising it. But Chandler’s grip on Kent’s wrist slips and something somewhere shifts. The sky outside is lighter than it should be—they can’t stay here, in the comfortable quiet, indefinitely. They’ll have to regard each other in the day and realise that they can’t blame the night for anything.

Kent doesn’t draw his hands away yet, but says, ‘Why are you asking, anyway?’ instead.

‘I can’t very well leave you here after we’ve…’ Chandler trails off; if he had full use of his shoulder he’d probably have gestured, but instead he swaps out his words for a murmur and continues with a quiet, ‘It’d be unkind.’

‘No, it wouldn’t. I understand, it’s fine—‘ 

It’s not a matter of fairness; it never is. Kent learnt that long ago—he could have thought Chandler had, too, but for a such a besieged man he can be remarkably idealistic about some things. There’ve been signs of it in the incident room: they all know he’s as straight as an arrow as a copper, not willing to bend the rules for the sake of some spurious idea of working with the enemy for the greater good. But somehow Kent wouldn’t have thought that view of what’s right and what’s not would transfer to this. 

‘Please, Kent—I was thinking about you,’ Kent’s breaths catch; it’s telling enough for Chandler to pause. ‘And, well, I thought it’s the least I could do. If you were amiable.’

He tries to ignore the way Chandler’s tone gives him something similar to palpitations and picks apart the words instead, dissecting for meaning. Trying to see the pitfalls before they fall into them.

‘You said I didn’t wake you,’ he says, as gently as he can make a reprimand. 

‘I—you didn’t.’ Chandler sighs. ‘I’ve had a lot of time to think, lately.’

That’s not a comforting fact and judging by the look Chandler shoots him, it doesn’t escape him either. Lying awake at night’s not brilliant at the best of times, let alone when you’re trying to regrow bone. 

Kent stands his ground. ‘A lot of medicated time.’

‘Kent.’

That’s enough to make him waver: his name in Chandler’s voice, sounding a little like a lamentation. He’s never got off on anyone begging—and certainly not Chandler—but he can’t resist it, either. Not really. Maybe he won’t, if they’re both on the same page. And apparently they’re both in the same chapter, which is far more than he’d ever thought, so that’s something.

‘Let’s set one thing straight: you don’t owe me anything,’ Kent says; it’s easier to be plain as day at night. ‘For anything I’ve done.’

Kent’s not sure he could bear it if all of this—not just the way Chandler had kissed back, but the way he offers him a space closer to his side now, the way he takes tea gently out of Kent’s hand instead of picking it up from where Kent’s placed it on the table, the way he looks at him like he’s glad to see him—if it’s born from some sense of obligation. God knows Chandler’s got enough of those already. Kent doesn’t want (has never wanted) to be that. If anything he wants to be the opposite. No one can be a true respite, he knows that, but he’d give it a damn good go, if Chandler wanted him to try.

He draws his hands firmly back into his own space. ‘Don’t do something just because you think you should.’

Strictly speaking, he’s not being entirely unselfish here, but there’s nothing to rush into. He doesn’t want to be one of Chandler’s rash decisions that he regrets as soon as he can see the big picture.

‘Everything I have done—I mean, everything here—I have done because I wanted to.’

Kent can’t tell how to say this without inadvertently asking how much Chandler knew about him and his treacherous heart, although clearly there’s been something. He runs the risk of running implication too far, or not far enough, and having to explain his references more than he’d like at this point in the conversation, but Chandler’s still sat in front of him with an open countenance and Kent can’t quite tolerate the sincerity of his face, so he pulls at the edge of the blankets pooled around their knees with restless fingers.

When Chandler doesn’t stop him fidgeting, Kent continues: ‘I wasn’t trying… I didn’t have any ulterior motive. I care either way.’

That’s it, then. Laid bare. Turning and offering the space between his shoulders where a knife would fit, the sensitive back of his neck. Make or break.

Chandler is still and quiet in the dark. ‘I sleep on the left.’

Kent sighs and lets go of the blankets in favour of a small gesturing towards Chandler. ‘Your shoulder…’

‘Is better,’ Chandler says, though when Kent just looks at him he adds, ‘Than it was.’ He sighs when he notices that Kent’s still not convinced. ‘I’m not putting any weight on it.’

And it’s something about that excuse, that reason, whatever it is, that makes Kent relent. Not that it would have taken much, but it’s that that does it, with the tone in Chandler’s voice that’s suddenly gone young and a bit scared. It sounds like how Kent feels when he lets someone go but wants them to stay, when his pride wins and he doesn’t reach out catch to catch their sleeve and say please.

‘Okay,’ he breathes, because he never wants to make Chandler beg.

‘Okay?’

Chandler sounds surprised, even though he’d been the one asking. It seems as if he’s always surprised that someone wants to keep him. The man’s a conundrum—he takes to suaveness like a duck to water when he needs to but there’s still an awkwardness bred in the bone to him. An uncertainty that’s never quite soothed.

Kent’s mouth quirks into a small smile that he hopes is reassuring. ‘Yeah.’

He leans forward and presses a soft whisper of another kiss to the corner of Chandler’s mouth as punctuation. He doesn’t think about this one either until he’s doing it and startled a tiny sound out of Chandler’s throat. This is the point when Kent usually falls back on the thought of _Oh, fuck it_ , and gets aggressive with kisses, with want, surges past the uncertainty and embarrassment with someone else’s hands tightening into bruises on his hips.

But no, this—this is where he’s admitted everything, now he’s proving it after doing his best to mask it for so long. And this is Chandler, and somehow even that hadn’t featured in fevered dreams or his distracted musings. Kent can’t remember exactly what had, actually, as Chandler subtly turns his retreat into something of a minuscule dance, following with just enough movement to nudge their mouths back together again with a softness that usually scares him. Kent reaches out and blindly rests his palm against Chandler’s jaw—yeah, he’s definitely got a thing about faces, or Chandler’s face at the very least.

He could get stuck like this, in the midst of exchange. He’s certainly not going to stop, because for the lack of any better words it’s bloody lovely, and he doesn’t until Chandler wrinkles his nose in a silent wince and Kent feels it against his cheek.

‘Don’t hurt yourself,’ he whispers as he moves back, reappropriating his grip to extricate himself from the bundle of covers that has settled between them.

‘I’m trying not to,’ Chandler says, sounding dazed.

‘Come on, then,’ Kent murmurs with a shaky smile.

* 

Kent never would have admitted it, but he’s missed the sensation of someone else falling asleep, of being together but alone; half of what he enjoys about being close to someone is just coexisting, knowing they’re there. And God knows he’s always aware when Chandler’s there, and has been ever more recently, but that’s nothing compared to this.

He almost daren’t move for disturbing something. He feels like a supplanter, though of whom he’s got no idea—a creeping feeling suggests Chandler himself, but that doesn’t make much sense at all and Kent daren’t trust his mind to work properly while he’s standing in the gentle dark of Chandler’s bedroom. He moves gingerly, as if his eyes haven’t adjusted yet, but it’s really his brain that’s two steps too slow. He almost pinches himself, just to make sure he isn’t having a very vivid lucid dream, but he ends up stumbling over the corner of the carpet instead and that does the job of providing proof.

‘Kent?’

‘I’m fine, that was—‘ Embarrassing, that’s the word. ‘—Nothing.’

He gestures vaguely in any old direction (in fact, Kent’s pretty sure it’s the opposite direction to what he actually means), but neither of them seem to really be bothered about specificity anymore. Chandler lets Kent ignore it, leaving him to fidget and wonder what, exactly, constitutes overstepping the invitation, while he eases himself back onto the side of the bed with folded-back blankets. He’s so endlessly careful, as usual, but Kent still feels as if he should keep an eye on him. The edges of the carpet are lethal, after all.

He watches him with his heart on his tongue, heavy and ferrous, as Chandler moves with more familiarity than Kent can ever hope for to reinsinuate himself beneath the bedspread, tender with reluctance to jostle the bone. Kent almost offers to help, before realizing that he wouldn’t know what to do—he doesn’t know what to do with his hands just standing there, so he daren’t accept any more responsibility. He shuffles about a bit, trying to move but never quite mustering enough courage. He manages to scrape just enough up to be able to run his fingers along the edge of the duvet, sheets tucked undisturbed in a way that seems to make Kent’s heart pound harder against his lungs, hampering his attempts at deep, controlled breaths.

Chandler looks at him; somehow he doesn’t need a crook of a finger to beckon. 

Kent twists his fingers together as Chandler waits, dragging the sleeves of his jumper over his hands until he realises what he’s doing and lets go with the air of someone who’s just made a decision and damn the consequences.

‘Will I make you hot?’

Kent doesn’t wait for an answer; he knows he feels the cold more than most, and from just the brief touches to Chandler’s skin he’s experienced he can tell that he’s warm whether he likes it or not. He pulls his jumper off with such haste that it catches on his ear, leaving him in his sentimental and probably embarrassing t-shirt, a relic from his youth that’s washed so thin it’s almost transparent. He folds the knit—more than it deserves, really, it’s seen so much in its life that Kent’s never thought twice about balling it into an overnight bag—and leaves it over the back of an armchair before getting into bed, careful not to jostle the mattress.

Chandler doesn’t say anything, but Kent knows he’s watching in that quiet way he has, noticing almost without meaning to. A brief irrational wave of guilt swells in Kent’s chest as he disturbs the neat tucks of the bedding, clambering under with the clumsiness that comes with nerves and a desperation to be inhumanly gentle, until he’s sat cross-legged next to Chandler’s shoulder, revelling in the way the bed dips under them. 

It’s funny, really, sitting in Chandler’s bed in the blue-black dark, listening to the rhythm of their mismatched breathing. He thought he’d be a lot more drunk if they ever got to this point. He’d thought that, of all things, would be the certainty. Except now his vision’s blurry because of how long it takes the adjust to the low light, not the vodka, and the lightheadedness is because he thinks he can still feel the phantom whisper of Chandler’s fingers behind his ear. Can still feel the gentle press of Chandler against him, the trepidation of his half-touch. The slivers of hesitation. 

‘Are you sure about this?’ Kent asks, still sat upright.

There’s a conspicuous moment of nighttime silence, complete with its intrinsic solemnity. Kent reckons he can hear Chandler thinking but in the end he simply shifts slightly—Kent almost winces in sympathy, for it’s difficult to forget how injuries can keep you on the edge of sleep when all you want to do is tip over into it—and sighs. He sounds remarkably like himself, considering the situation.

‘I seem to remember,’ he says, pausing for a beat too long to be entirely lighthearted, ‘being told off for asking a similar question.’

Kent huffs, somehow both fond and defensive. ‘I didn’t tell you off.’

If he stops and thinks about it then he’d probably find it’s not the same question at all, but Kent knows he retreats into semantics when he’s apprehensive so he squashes the urge to argue the point. Time and place, after all. He’s had this conversation with himself already.

Instead he turns to look down at Chandler’s face, half-shrouded in a particularly dark patch of shadow, and says, ‘All right, I take your point.’

The mottled light’s thrown in such a way that Kent catches the edge of a tiny smile on Chandler’s mouth; it’s definite, that look. It’s enough to make Kent (relatively) comfortable sliding down until he can settle his head against the second, untouched pillow. They lapse into another silence, one that’s not quite comfortable but suggests that it will be, soon, if they just wait. Kent can’t help but feel the slow, liquid thumps against his chest, the flutter of a pulse at the base of his thumb, the undeniable proof that he’s alive and there, breathing in the somehow-familiar smell of Chandler’s laundry detergent.

‘Still, though,’ he asks eventually, soft and concerned, a small sound in the expanse of night. ‘Are you?’

Kent doesn’t turn to look, and judging from the lack of what would have been its counterpoint, neither does Chandler. It’s a question he has to ask, again and again, despite the fact that they both seem to be afraid of the concrete answer.

‘I think so.’ 

That’s when Kent does turn; he ends up doing it bodily, too, not just his head, settling on his side by instinct before thinking it through. Chandler’s tilted his head just enough to make his hair flop forward; Kent almost extricates a hand from the close mix of his limbs and the unfamiliar bedding to push it back into place, like he’d done that night in hospital, but he doesn’t—even now.

‘You think so?’ Kent asks, ready to throw off the covers and get straight back to his usual spot on the sofa, despite the ever-increasing threat of back problems.

Chandler looks vaguely apologetic. Kent wills him not to, despite the fact he knows it won’t work.

‘It’s as good as I’m going to get, Kent,’ Chandler says, quiet, almost resigned. ‘It’s as good as I ever get.’

‘All right,’ Kent tries to soothe, although he knows he both can’t and won’t be able to. ‘All right. And, you know, you can call me Em. If you want.’ 

His voice is small. ‘I might have to work up to that.’

Kent sighs through a smile. ‘I thought you might.’

‘That’s all right?’

‘Yeah, that’s all right.’

And it really is. Kent’s never been a much of a chancer, either. He’s always been too careful for that. He always has to be pushed; he shouldn’t have let Mansell do the pushing, thinking back, but it doesn’t seem to have been as big of a mistake as he thought it’d been. Even so, the possibility doesn’t elude him. He’s minutely aware of how easy it would be to insinuate himself close to Chandler’s side, to throw a leg across his; he could tuck his chin into the curve of Chandler’s good shoulder, he could snare him around the waist and press the bridge of his nose to the tip of Chandler’s clavicle. But, even now, just because he can doesn’t mean he should, and even slipping his fingers through Chandler’s, the joints of their fingers entwined, placing shallow dents in the mattress, feels like it could be pushing it too far _._

Handling the situation’s like handling a small animal, all fluff and brittle bones with a racing heartbeat tapping against the crook of a palm. The fragility makes you feel as if you’ve never realised your own strength, how much of a bumbling brute you might just be. It’s equal parts exquisite and frightening, and Kent lets the moments stretch and morph into one another. They lie in a companionable silence for long enough for their breathing to synchronise. Kent’s still full of the skin-scalding awe that he’s this close, that he’s wanted this close, when he notices Chandler’s profile scrunch in discomfort.

Kent immediately snaps out of the pleasing unfocused happiness about what’s happened, and he lifts his head for a moment.

‘Your shoulder?’ 

Chandler’s first response is a now-familiar sound of muted frustration, followed by a half-abashed, ‘I just find it difficult to sleep on my back.’

Kent hums; not much has changed, then, despite all the feeling to the contrary. Chandler could probably afford to be a little more lax about keeping all his weight off the shoulder while he’s lying down, but Chandler would have to rearrange his DNA before he’d be able to be lax about anything. Plus, if he were to roll onto it during the night, he’s probably feel like he was back in week one by the morning. 

Even so, Chandler’s tone is one that betrays a familiarity with that train of thought, so Kent decides not to sing the praises of medical conservatism. He goes for small talk instead.

‘How do you usually?’ 

‘The opposite,’ Chandler says, sounding wistful.

‘Really?’ Kent’s smiling before he can think to be embarrassed about it. Chandler frowns and stretches to turn to him properly; Kent huffs out an amused breath but diverts his gaze to an indeterminate patch of sheet. ‘Sorry, no, it’s just… I can’t picture it.’ 

‘I can.’ Chandler’s borrowed that ill-humoured tone from Miles. ‘And after this many weeks, it’s infuriating.’

Kent hums, fighting the urge to twist into a slightly more comfortable position of his own; it would be now, wouldn’t it?

‘I used to listen to the shipping forecast,’ he murmurs, the statement somehow both a suggestion and an admittance of one of his lowest points.

‘It’s a bit late for that now.’

Kent accepts Chandler’s point: it’s true, it’s well past one in the morning.

‘Not for the morning one, though. I fell back on that more than a few times,’ he admits, recalling nights like this one, awake and staring at the ceiling as the forecast for coastal stations and inland waters were read out, numbers and names only familiar in the sense that he’s heard them somewhere before.

Then he realises that he’s remembering the nights when he got no sleep at all, and got up not to enjoy the sunrise but to curse at it from behind a cup of over-steeped tea that he almost forgot about halfway through making. 

‘Sorry,’ he says, after a rueful moment. ‘I’m not being very helpful, am I?’

‘I’m not sure I want you to be helpful.’

‘Yeah, well. I want to be.’

Kent turns over onto his side, incremental in the movement and infinitely careful, drawing the covers around himself. After a moment’s steadying breath he blindly pats around until he finds the flat of the inside of Chandler’s elbow; he insinuates his fingers in the crook, feels both the minuscule flinch and the moment of relaxation. His hand is warm and dry and Chandler is there. Kent’s not sure if this is helping, strictly speaking, but it’s the only other thing that comes to mind. 

Perhaps that’s the key: to touch each other without pretending it means anything else, without saying he’s doing it for any other reason apart from he wants to. He’s never lied, not really—he’s always meant his excuses, regardless of the fact they were excuses, but there’s a difference between touching the back of Chandler’s hand to prove to him that he can feel it and idly tracing patterns into his skin because he’s there and close enough and gentle with trust. Not quite relaxation, not yet—it’s too early for that in this, and even if it wasn’t Kent’s not sure if Chandler’s relaxed since that stakeout, but it’s not tension, either.

It takes a long time for Chandler’s body to go lax—it doesn’t seem to be something he does often. Kent watches him through the soft dark (that probably doesn’t help) but he can’t not; he’s so close, and it’s quiet, and the warmth of Chandler’s skin thrums, alive, against his fingers.

They linger in their silence—it does feel like theirs now, after all the things of theirs it has concealed—and the darkness is an odd blanket; light seeps in at the edges, reminding them both that they’re closer to morning than they are to anything else. But as Kent drifts off he keeps a hand resting in Chandler’s elbow, his thumb occasionally running back and forth across Chandler’s skin.

He’s already half gone when a soft hum falls from his mouth, an answer to an unasked question, and even if he doesn’t sleep quite yet, he’s warm in the knowledge that Chandler’s there, that he’s there, and that they’re both all right.

*

His alarm must be so ingrained it’s a part of his DNA because the tone rouses Kent from sleep even when it’s little more than a muffled beep and vibration from the next room. Somehow the suggestion of the sound is more infuriating than actually having it squealing into his ear, so Kent presses his face into the warmed pillow and sighs heavily. He braces his hand against the mattress—he remembers drifting off with his hand on Chandler’s arm, but his fingers must have slipped in the night because his palm meets sheet and not skin now—and forces himself to sit up. He presses his fingers to his still-closed eyes for a moment, wrinkling his nose at the indignity at having to get up after such a short time asleep, but the insistent beeps get him to his feet before long.

He picks up his jumper on the way out for some reason—habit, probably, he picks up anything that’s out of place now—and almost pounces on his phone when it’s far enough within earshot to be almost painful. The anger-stupor that arrives every time he hears that sound (whether he’s asleep or not) has started to seep through him and he’s not, he’s _not_ , going to have that be the feeling that overpowers the fragile warmth that Chandler’s sheets have left on him. 

The need to hold onto the feeling smacks of grasping at the last tendrils of a dream, but his heart’s beating with metronomic regularity,so he’s certainly alive and not dreaming. It hurts when he clips the side of his leg on the coffee table, too, so that’s what he’d call definitive proof. The dent he’s left in the mattress beside Chandler is, too, although he daren’t gaze at that for very long. He occupies it instead, a little heady, and taps his mobile against the palm of his hand, wondering where to go next.

(He doesn’t particularly want to go anywhere, actually, but time marches on.)

‘Your alarm sounds like a van reversing.’

Chandler’s voice is throaty and strange with sleep.

Kent looks over at his still-shut eyes, half-smiling. ‘Does it?’

‘What?’

Watching Chandler frown and try to make sense of himself while he’s still half asleep quickly makes its way up the list of Kent’s favourite things. 

‘You said my alarm sounds like a van reversing.’

‘Did I?’ Chandler blinks, and yes, of course his first expression of the day would be self-reproach. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be, I didn’t take offense.’ That would be an impossibility. ‘Can’t say the same about my alarm, though. You might be in that one’s bad books for good now.’

Kent reckons that feeling’s mutual, because for some reason it starts going off again in his hand, and he swears under his breath as he swipes a clumsy finger across the lock screen and silences it for good instead of pressing snooze. He shakes his head—is there anything that won’t betray him?—and deposits the mobile on the nearest tabletop for safekeeping.

He runs a hand over his face and works his jaw as a yawn creeps up on him. ’Shoulder all right?’

Chandler makes a noncommittal sound, sleep-worn, but says, ‘I’m optimistic.’

Miles’ voice mutters _Well that’s a first_ somewhere in the back of Kent’s mind and he smiles, knowing how the skipper would smirk. Chandler shoots him a look and all Kent can do in the face of that is shake his head and turn away so he can smile a little wider. 

‘Nevertheless,’ he says, with a little bit of a sigh as he catches sight of the time ticking away, ‘Give it ten minutes and let me get out of your way.’

*

The morning proceeds as normal. As normal as they’ve made it before—which, it strikes Kent as he decides there’s time for a cup of tea, is awfully normal. In fact, knowing that Chandler’s in the next room is almost more normal than scrapping with Hannah as to what is and what isn’t the proper use of a toaster, and Kent’s been doing that for years.

In the end, habit gets the better of him, and he calls, ‘Tea?’ to nothing in particular just because that’s the one thing that does transfer fro home.

There’s a pause then a muffled word of assent from the other side of a wall; Kent smiles to himself and sets out another mug.

He’s still not sure how this has happened, really, even as he goes through the usual motions—or what it is that has changed. Something about it is surreal, almost out-of-body. Like the night that set it all in motion, Kent supposes, though romantic notions of the cyclical nature of the world are a bit much for this time in the morning. Plus, just thinking about it would probably be enough for Miles to be able to guess and take the piss. But even the threat of that isn’t quite enough to stop his grip on reality feeling a little slippery, so he retrieves his phone from its charger and leans against the counter doing his usual checks as the chamomile of Chandler’s green tea reminds him of where, exactly, he is. Somehow it’s that which grounds him and not the sound of footsteps in the hall.

‘Kent?’

He hums, tapping a brief text to Erica. He’s saying nothing, but she’ll still know as soon as she sees him.

‘I don’t know what we’re doing.’

Almost immediately, Kent regrets pressing send. Not that he’s said anything. It’s just that whatever proceeded that statement must have been something worth regretting. He thought—hoped—they’d have more time than this to sort themselves out. They’ve not given it any time at all, really.

That won’t matter to Chandler, though, and when Kent sets his phone aside and turns to look Chandler in the eye the best he can, it’s obvious that he’s tried to pack an awful lot of thinking into twenty odd minutes. At first glance he doesn’t look run aground—he’s back to the three-piece suits, not a thread astray, and the only tell that there’s still an injury to contend with is the careful way he holds his shoulder in alignment—but Kent’s known him long enough to know you always have to look twice.

‘To tell the truth,’ he says, carefully, because he’s laying himself out here. ‘Neither do I.’

Disappointment, or something like it, flickers across Chandler’s face. Kent almost wants to laugh—him, with the answers? That, of all the things they see, is preposterous. It would be easier, but nothing’s ever easy round their neck of the woods. It’d be nice if they didn’t have to wring themselves dry to squeeze out some half-baked conclusions, but Chandler looks like he’s set out to do just that, and as much as Kent would love to be able to say _don’t bother, it’ll be all right_ , there’s no guarantees.

There’s no putting Chandler off, either, and he says, ‘I’m not good with open-ended questions,’ with a sigh.

‘You’re a detective.’

‘You’re not a case.’ 

Kent flushes, although it’s probably not a compliment. The tone’s far too casual, especially for Chandler. There could be a multitude of hurts hidden within its few words, and Kent can’t help the sudden jolt of fear that he’s the cause of one or all of them. It must show on his face—his fucking face, bane of his existence, bearing witness to everything he wants to keep near his bones—because Chandler winces and looks like he wishes he could bury his face in both his hands.

‘I don’t know how best to explain,’ he says, angling his face away. ‘I don’t know if I can.’

There’s enough packed into Chandler’s voice that Kent can guess, even while the man studies the tiles with as much concentration as he usually gives evidence exhibits. All of them, through no fault of their own, are more familiar with Thanatos than Eros. Sheer exposure, nothing to be done about that.

Kent takes a deep breath and tips his head up, leaving his hand leaning against the edge of the counter, the spread of his fingers probably dangerously close to the base of the full mug, but even Chandler doesn’t look like that’s at the front of his mind at the moment. He’s just watching Kent’s expression with a guarded look on his face, the one he wears when he can’t even conjure up the mask he dons when their cases are falling down around them and he’s still got to be DI.

‘Here’s another thing that needs saying,’ Kent starts, carefully, watching for the moment when Chandler either stops or starts believing him. ‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You can if you want to, but…’ He shrugs. ‘You don’t have to.’

They do enough explaining and unravelling. Kent doesn’t want Chandler to take himself apart for him. Five years ago he might have been impatient, desperate for the sort of answers he’s never been able to give, wanting confessions and revelations. If his time with Chandler so far has taught him anything it’s that silence doesn’t always mean no, that a lack of response doesn’t always equate to rejection. There’s more nuance in single words than there is in an entire gushing rendition. Kent’s sure he and Chandler have spoken more in these past few weeks than they ever have—about things unrelated to cases, at least—and it isn’t as if they’ve been nattering until the wee hours.

‘I do want to.’ Chandler sounds surprised. ‘I want to explain it to myself.’

‘When you’re ready, then.’

‘I have been led to believe—‘ There’s a Miles-sized pause. ‘—that I’ve kept you waiting already.’

Kent shrugs; it’s not a denial. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘There’s no point in doing more damage just to get answers.’

It’s a lie, really, or at least some cousin of an oxymoron. What do they do, in the end? Just that. They destroy what’s left of an already crumbling building to figure out which knock of the hammer sent the first brick tumbling to the ground. In putting a murderer away they unearth adulterers, liars, swindlers, cheats, crooks of all shapes and sizes. Kent’s never been able to decide if they’re the ones doing the damage or not. Everyone’s happy before they arrive. Then again, everyone’s not, too. They go in thinking they’re making it better, but it’s a Sisyphean task. 

And there’s no need to start doing it to themselves.

‘You’re very philosophical.’

‘No, I’m not,’ Kent corrects. ‘Just well versed in keeping my id in check.’ His hands fisted in Mansell’s lapels come to mind. ‘The best I can, anyway.’

‘You’ll have to tell me how you do it.’

Kent shoots a sad smile over his shoulder as he wrings his hands around the glaze of the mug. Chandler offers one back, knowing and sympathetic; it’s a far more familiar situation than it should be, them swapping melancholy looks. The problem is that Kent reckons they do the same thing, really: the bottle, one way or the other. Bottling up, emptying one. How does he do it? The answer is: not very well, barely enough. And they both know that.

‘I don’t know why I said that,’ Kent murmurs, releasing the mug as the touch starts to sting. ‘I’ve never been that keen on Freud.' 

’No.’ It sounds soothing, somehow, coming from Chandler. ‘No, neither have I.’

The flat’s quiet. It’s used to this extra occupancy, now, and the silence envelops them both. It feels like a dead end—not a comfortable trailing off of a conversion. Not an end at all. Just a sort of tapering out that says there’s so much more to say but neither of them are going to go there.

One of them has to, though. If only to stop Miles from taking one look at them in an hour’s time and declare that they’re the ones who’ve made him intervene.

‘We can forget this ever happened, if you want. If that’s what’s best.' 

Kent says it knowing he won’t forget. That just… that won’t happen. What he means is that he’ll set it aside, relegate it to somewhere separate. Be an adult about it, no matter how much the way Chandler’s looking at him now makes his stomach do juvenile backflips. He can do that. He can. It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t wish with every fibre of his being (and a few more) that he won’t have to.

Chandler’s fingers twitch. ‘I don’t think…’

Kent’s nodding, resigned, before he really notices the quiet determination in Chandler’s eyes. He leans in and kisses him, all dry and soft, and Kent’s silent in his surprise. It’s been all him up to now, and this is Chandler stooping to meet him—and as much as Kent wants to tell him to stand up straight, don’t be an idiot, this must hurt, he slips a hand to join of Chandler's neck to his skull. Somehow Chandler can kiss without stirring the stillness, and it’s almost as if he’s not there at all—if it wasn’t for the warmth under his hand and the too, too solid flesh that doesn’t melt away into imagination.

It should scare him—he’s always imagined it would, a little—but it doesn’t. Even when Chandler inches away and straightens his shoulder with a slight wince, Kent’s fingers murmur at the nape of his neck, flicker across the skin where there’d been a butterfly bandage a couple of weeks before. Then he tells himself not to be so maudlin and returns his hand to his cup of tea, looking appropriately sheepish.

Chandler toys with a smile, that tiny real one that comes out sometimes, but doesn’t say anything. He accepts the tea that Kent pushes in his direction instead. 

‘Not forgetting, then,’ Kent murmurs after a beat’s silence; he can’t help it. He’s always craved Chandler’s affirmation.

‘I’d rather not.’

‘No, me neither.’ 

He’d rather do that again, actually, but there’s not time for that and tea, and considering there’s a shift to get through… well, it’s not an easy choice, but it is a sensible one.

‘You focus on getting that fixed, yeah?’ he says, giving up on hiding behind his mug and nodding towards Chandler’s shoulder. ‘Then we can sort everything else out.’ 

‘Everything?’ 

The rest goes unspoken: _That’s an undertaking._ And it is. There’s no countering that. The funny thing is that it doesn’t really feel like an insurmountable problem. (Not anymore. Not in comparison with the rest of theirs.) 

Kent shrugs, but it’s not flippant, somehow. ‘The pertinent parts.’

A month ago, he couldn’t have picked those out of a lineup. They were as elusive as everything else he tried to keep within his grasp, evaporating into smoke that seeped through his fingers. But now, in what he would have called an impossible moment, Chandler’s fingers are gentle and warm against the curve of his neck into his shoulder, and as he walks past, close to his back, Kent can’t imagine them disappearing this time.

It’s the most sure he’s felt about anything in a long time. It’s only a second, only while Chandler squeezes his shoulder in the same way he did that time in the incident room (except it’s not the same at all), but it’s all the surety he needs.

Kent opens his mouth to say something, but he’s a moment too late and he has to turn to find Chandler’s face again—and when he does, he finds that words aren’t the thing he needs at all. They’re better at reading these silences than he ever thought, aren’t they?

Chandler looks like he’s felt the same moment of conviction, and the slight curve of his mouth says he’s going to do his best to hold onto it. And if that’s not the first step, Kent doesn’t know what is.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the end! Thank you all so, so much for all the comments, kudos, and support - I cannot possibly say how amazing it is to hear from you all and to know that you've enjoyed reading. It's times like these when I really realise how lovely the Whitechapel fandom is. 
> 
> I must also say thank you, again, to both **timethetalewastold** and **yszarin** for all their work betaing this fic. I am wholeheartedly grateful. Any remaining mistakes/typos are completely my own responsibility. 
> 
> For those interested: in between fics, I can be found on [Tumblr](http://saizine.tumblr.com) (where I post weekly updates/excerpts as part of the [Sunday Six](http://saizine.tumblr.com/tagged/sunday-six/) exercise) and on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/saizine/) (where you can see me panic, in real time, about juggling academic writing, fic, and sleep). Don't be shy come and say hello! But, apart from that, I suppose it's goodbye for now. Hopefully that won't be too far away. x


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